Gospel Story Finder

My dad is not a member of the Church. Since my mom, brothers and sisters, and I are all active in the Church, we are sometimes at odds with him. There was a time in my life when my father and I just couldn’t seem to get along because he was unkind about my beliefs and I was angry at him for not agreeing with me.
In an effort to smooth things over between us, my mom tried to help me see things through Dad’s eyes. “How would a person without the gospel see this situation?” she asked me gently.
Since that time, I have thought a lot about what she said. I have tried to be more patient and forgiving, and I am trying to improve my relationship with my father.
It has helped me to know that Heavenly Father will not give me anything I can’t handle. It has also helped me to know that my earthly father loves me, even though we may not always agree. I still pray for my father to join the Church, but he now knows that I love and respect him no matter what.

When Elder Widtsoe was released as president of the mission in 1934, I started correspondence with Elder Joseph F. Merrill, who succeeded him. He arranged to send me the Millennial Star, which I received until 1940 when World War II interrupted the subscription.
In January 1937, Elder Richard R. Lyman, successor to President Merrill, wrote that he and Elder Hugh B. Brown would be in Rome on a certain day. I could meet them there and be baptized. However, the letter was delayed because of war conditions, and I did not receive it in time.
From then until 1949, I was cut off from all news of the Church, but I remained a faithful follower and preached the gospel of the dispensation of the fulness of times. I had copies of the standard works, and I translated chapters into Italian and sent them to acquaintances with the greeting, “Good day. The morning breaks—Jehovah speaks!”
On February 13, 1949, I sent a letter to Elder Widtsoe at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Elder Widtsoe answered my letter on October 3, 1950, explaining that he had been in Norway. I sent him a long letter in reply in which I asked him to help me to be quickly baptized, because I felt that I had proven myself to be a faithful son and servant of God, observing the laws and commandments of his kingdom. Elder Widtsoe asked President Samuel E. Bringhurst of the Swiss-Austrian Mission to go to Sicily to baptize me.
On January 18, 1951, President Bringhurst arrived on the island and baptized me at Imerese. Apparently, this was the first baptism performed in Sicily. Then, on April 28, 1956, I entered the temple at Bern, Switzerland, and received my endowment. At last, to be in the presence of my Heavenly Father! I felt that God’s promise had been fully fulfilled—the day had come indeed when the source of the book was known to me and I was able to enjoy the effects of my faith.

Brother Bollbach’s new skills gave him the confidence to start on his next goal—helping others like himself succeed. With the help of government funding, Brother Bollbach set up a workshop to teach woodcarving to people with visual impairments. He had many wonderful experiences in the workshop. One in particular stands out in his memory. It was two weeks before Christmas, and he was alone. Brother Bollbach was carving a special present for his wife—the model of an elk. He finished the elk’s body and thin legs with ease, but carving the eyes seemed impossible.
“I decided to stand up,” he says. “As I walked around the workshop, I began to sing my favorite hymn, ‘I Need Thee Every Hour.’ I prayed to God out loud for help, and again I sang.” After singing for more than an hour, Brother Bollbach picked up the knife and wood. But he still couldn’t carve the eyes. “What should I do? Shall I give up?” he asked himself. “No, Fritz, don’t give up. Try it again,” he told himself. However, he still could not hold the knife steady enough to carve the eyes. He stood up again and walked around for another hour.
“I sang, I cried, and I prayed for some time,” he recalls. “I thought of the many blessings the Lord had given me. I then took the knife again, and with my hands shaking, I carved the eyes and within minutes finished the whole head.”

As I cleaned the beauty shop after school, I found a half-full jug of wine left over from a party. I asked my boss what I should do with it. “Dump it out, and throw away the bottle,” he said as he left. He locked the door on his way out, and I was alone. I continued my usual cleaning routine, but that bottle of wine was on my mind. I was 14 and had never tasted wine. I was tempted.
I cleaned the restroom, sanitized the hairbrushes, and mopped the floor, thinking the entire time about that jug of wine in the back workroom. I knew one taste would not make me drunk. I knew that nobody else would ever know. With that thought I realized that I would know and so would my Heavenly Father. My struggle was over. I knew I would be sorry if I gave in to this temptation, and I wanted to be strong enough to resist all temptations. I poured the wine down the drain, rinsed the bottle, and dropped it into the trash.
This experience might seem unimportant except for the difference it made in me. I had made a decision that I would keep the commandments even when nobody was looking. I wanted to do the right thing for the right reason. I now know that I have the strength to resist temptation, and I feel more confident that I can walk the path back to my Heavenly Father.
Beth M. Stephenson, Oklahoma, USA

Photo illustration by David Stoker
When I was 12, the girls I thought were my four best friends decided they didn’t want to be friends with me. They began to say horrible and hateful things about me. I felt unloved, unwanted, unneeded, and worthless. I thought I would never feel happy again.
I tried and tried, but the happiness just never came. I didn’t want to do anything, and I stopped participating in school activities. After a few months of feeling like everything was falling apart, I started to hide my feelings and pretend to be happy.
I stopped praying, and I complained anytime I had to go to church or midweek activities. My former friends had constantly teased me about being a member of the Church. I told myself that if I stopped going to church and living the standards, I could get my friends back.
I tried and tried, but the happiness just never came.
But after a few months, I realized that I needed to rely more on the Savior when I was feeling hurt and lonely. Jesus Christ felt all of my pain. He died on the cross for me, and I was setting aside His sacrifice and His gospel. I started complaining less and less until, finally, Sunday was my favorite day of the week.
Even after going to church, something still didn’t feel right. I decided I needed to pray. I couldn’t remember the last time I had prayed. Before I could think twice about it, I knelt down and started to pray. I cried to Heavenly Father about everything that had happened. I apologized for forgetting Him when He was what I needed most.
After I finished my prayer, I had a very strong impression to go look at my scriptures. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just opened up to a random page and started reading. I came across Mosiah 26:31: “Ye shall also forgive one another your trespasses; … he that forgiveth not his neighbor’s trespasses when he says that he repents, the same hath brought himself under condemnation.”
After I finished my prayer, I had a very strong impression to go look at my scriptures.
I realized that my pain and unhappiness weren’t simply caused by what those girls had said or done to me. I was unhappy because I was holding a grudge against my former best friends, and I blamed myself for letting them hurt me. By not forgiving them or myself, I became my biggest bully.
I prayed that I would be able to forgive the girls who had hurt me and that I could forgive myself. Forgiving them was so hard for me, and it took a while. Forgiving them was like letting a piece of myself fall away. But after fully forgiving them, I felt that I could move on and learn from what happened to me by helping the people around me who might be struggling.
I don’t know why I let myself be sad for over a year, and I honestly have no idea why I thought being away from the Church would make me happier. Clearly, I was wrong. Even though it was still hard to feel happy and to forgive after that time, keeping an eternal perspective and focusing on Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation really helped me. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were there for me the whole time I was struggling; I had just been too stubborn to turn to Them. I’m glad I eventually did.
I am grateful for what I learned from my experience. I am a stronger, more compassionate, all-around better person because of it. I have been able to help so many people through their hard times because of my own. I have a strong belief that trials really can lead to blessings when we turn to God.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

Summertime is family reunion time. Last year everyone gathered at the Jacobson home. Over forty came, and tents were set up all over the yard. Ginger and a cousin slept on the trampoline. At every reunion the family goes for a bike ride or a walk. This time they went along a nearby river trail. On the path is a large tree with lots of branches. Everyone climbed the “family tree” and a picture was taken that now holds a place of honor in the well-filled family album.

Somewhat wistfully, Dad spoke up. “I sure wish I’d had the opportunity when I was a kid to meet my favorite baseball hero. Remember, Dad, the time we drove all the way to Boston to see Cal Herder pitch?”
“I’ll never forget it,” Grandpa answered. “You had a brand-new baseball, and you were hoping to get Herder’s autograph on it.”
Cal Herder. The name was familiar to Tom. “I remember hearing you talk about him, Dad. He was probably the best pitcher the team ever had, wasn’t he?”
“Sure was,” Dad replied, “but I never did get him to sign my baseball. There was a big crowd that day, and when the game was over, there was such a mob around him that I couldn’t get to him before we had to leave. I’d hoped to get one another day, but we never got there again.”
“Wasn’t he number eleven?” Grandpa asked. “As I recall, they retired his number when he stopped playing so that no other team member would ever wear it.”
“I think you’re right,” Dad agreed. “Well, Tom, maybe you’ll be luckier. David Reaves is number forty-three, isn’t he? By the way, I figured you’d want to go over to see the team, so I bought something for the occasion.” He handed Tom a small, cube-shaped box.
Tom quickly opened it. Inside it was a new baseball.
As he got dressed the next morning, Tom imagined David Reaves’s name autographed on the ball. Fishing and swimming could wait. The first thing he wanted to do was visit the training camp.
After breakfast Dad and Grandpa went out to work in the garden, and Tom ran down the street toward the ballpark. He was a little surprised that there weren’t many people at the training grounds, but then he realized that it was a school day for the kids who lived in the area. A few men Grandpa’s age stood along the fence talking to one another. Out on the field, catchers and pitchers were warming up. They weren’t wearing uniforms, so Tom couldn’t read their numbers. He recognized some of the players, though, but he didn’t see David Reaves.
He went over to the men along the fence, who were talking to a white-haired man in a coaching jacket. “Excuse me, but have any of you seen David Reaves?” Tom asked.
The men shook their heads, and the man in the coaching jacket replied, “He won’t be out here today, son. He broke his finger practicing yesterday, so he’ll be laid up for a while. But don’t worry. He’ll be in fine shape by the time the season opens.”
Tom couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh, no!” he moaned. “I sure hoped to see him.”
The man in the uniform smiled sympathetically, “I’m sorry. Say, I’d guess you’re a pretty good pitcher yourself, aren’t you?”
“Well,” said Tom, “I’ve pitched in Little League.”
“Why don’t you come over on this side of the fence and throw me a few balls? Maybe I can show you a pointer or two.”
Tom slipped through the gate, and the coach tossed him a ball. He made sure Tom was warmed up thoroughly, then asked him to throw his best pitch.
Tom pitched it fast and solid.
“Boy!” said one of the men leaning against the outside of the fence. “Maybe you’ll be scouting him for the team in a few years.”
Tom pitched a second ball and a third the same way.
“Not bad,” said the coach. “But let me show you how to get a little variety in your pitching so that the batter won’t know what you’re up to.” He showed Tom how to twist his wrist so that the ball would curve. “Now try it.” The ball went far outside, and the coach lunged for it. As the coach twisted around, Tom noticed the number on his jacket—number 11!
“Cal Herder was number 11 when he played for Boston!” Tom blurted out.
The coach looked surprised. “I’m Cal Herder,” he said. “I didn’t think a fellow your age would know about an old-timer like me.” He smiled.
“Oh, I sure do!” Tom replied. “You were my dad’s favorite player! But I thought you retired.”
“Nope,” said Mr. Herder. “Only from playing. Baseball’s my life, and I’ll coach just as long as they’ll let me.”
Tom threw a few more balls until he felt comfortable with the new pitch. Then Mr. Herder said, “I think I’d better go help some of the big guys.”
“Before you go, will you do me a favor?” Tom took the new baseball out of his pocket. “Will you autograph this for me, please?”
“Be glad to,” said the coach, and Tom watched with delight as the man wrote “Cal Herder” across the ball.
“Thanks a million for the help and the autograph!” Tom exclaimed.
“Glad to give you both,” Mr. Herder replied; then he trotted across the field.
Tom nearly flew back to his grandpa’s house. Dad and Grandpa were picking oranges off a tree in the front yard.
Dad looked at Tom and laughed. “From the grin on your face, I know what you have—a ball atographed by David Reaves.”
“Wrong, Dad. It’s something for you. Something you’ve been wanting for a long time.”

Brother Dai Endo of the Yokohama Japan Stake is an example of one who faithfully acted upon this principle. After serving for many years as a counselor in the stake presidency and then as president of the stake, Brother Endo was released in 2000. As he bore his testimony in stake conference at the time of his release, he expressed his love for the Saints and his gratitude for the blessing of serving them and the Lord. With a smile he said, “Next week I’ll probably be called to serve in the Primary.”

The following week Brother Endo’s bishop asked to meet with him and extended a call to him to serve as a Primary teacher. With humility the former stake president graciously accepted the call. His willingness to serve was not based on the status associated with the calling but instead on a desire to serve the Lord wherever he was called.

The game was going great until Brian, the shortstop, sprained a finger while fielding a line drive.
“José, you’re in.” Coach yelled as he raced out onto the field.
José grabbed his glove and jumped off the bench. I’ve never played shortstop, he thought. I hope I do OK.
The next batter hit a hot grounder to José’s right. As he reached for the ball, it took a squirrelly hop up in the air. He made a stab at it but only managed to keep the ball in the infield. “Sorry, guys,” he yelled to his teammates as the runners pulled up at first and second.
“Good stop,” Matthew called from the pitcher’s mound.
José shrugged. “That should have been the last out,” he mumbled. “Brian would have made it easy.”
The next batter struck out, and the game was over. The Asteroids had won 3–2.
“Way to go, team,” Coach praised them in the dugout. “Only one game left in the season. We may not be number one, but this is the best year we’ve ever had. I’m really proud of you guys.”
Everyone whooped and whistled and high-fived each other.
Coach continued, “I’m handing out the ballots for you to vote on player awards. Remember, these are secret ballots. The awards will be given out next Saturday night at the banquet. And I hope you’ll all be back to play next year.”
He doesn’t mean me, José thought. Who needs a bench warmer! He glanced down at the voting form. Most improved player. Easy. James. He was the best first baseman in the whole league.
Best athlete. Cinch. Matthew, the pitcher. Not only was he the fastest runner on the team, he had an arm that rivaled the best professional pitcher’s.
Most valuable player. It had to be Brian, the shortstop. He was an awesome all-around player. He could field, run, and smack a homer over the center field fence.
On the way out, Coach stopped him. “José,” he said, “Mitchell has a dentist’s appointment next Saturday. Would you fill in at catcher?”
José shrugged. “Sure, Coach.”
“I knew that I could count on you.” Coach squeezed his shoulder.
José kicked his bat up over his shoulder. Don’t count on much, he thought. I’m not the greatest catcher in the world, either. I bet I’ve filled in at every position on the field, but I’m not great at any of them. That’s why I’ve never had a permanent position—besides bench warmer.
The Asteroids won their final game in a squeaker. José overthrew second base once, allowing a steal, and he dropped a few pitches. Otherwise, he played a good game. Not great, just good enough.
“Way to go, José!” Matthew said, high-fiving him at the plate. “See you tonight at the banquet.”
“The banquet?” He had tried to forget it. He’d probably be the only guy there who didn’t win an award of some sort. “Uh, I don’t think I can make it. Mom and Dad won’t be home tonight, and I don’t have a ride.”
Matthew’s eyes grew wide. “Are you kidding? You’re not coming?”
“Sorry. I’d like to. I want to see you win Best Athlete and all—”
“Hey, Coach,” Matthew yelled at the departing coach, cutting José off. “I’ll see you around, José.” He punched him in the arm and sprinted off.
That evening, while José was lying on his bed, tossing his baseball in the air, his big sister pounded on the door. “Hey, little bro—you have company.”
“Company?” He rolled off the bed and opened the door. “Coach! What are you doing here?”
“Come on, José. If you don’t hustle, we’re going to be late for the banquet. Matthew told me that you needed a ride.”
José gulped. I shouldn’t have told Matthew I needed a ride, he thought. He pulled on his baseball cap and hurried out.
Soon the boys were all stuffed with the good banquet food. Even so, they were on the edges of their chairs, eagerly awaiting the announcement of the awards. Before long, only the three trophy awards were left.
José looked around the room. Sure enough, almost everyone else on the team had received at least a certificate.
“Most improved player,” Coach announced from the lectern up front, “James Carelli.”
Everyone in the room applauded. José slapped James’s palm as the tall first baseman went to accept his trophy. José was glad he’d come, after all, to see his friends win their awards.
“Best athlete, Matthew Beckman.” The team cheered again. José whistled through his fingers as Matthew sprinted for the front.
“And now for our most valuable player.” Coach bent down and lifted the trophy over his head. Everyone oohed and aahed.
“This special award goes to the person who made the biggest contribution to our team. A player who could always be counted on to perform his best, especially in a pinch. As a coach, I don’t know what I would have done without him this season. We might have had to forfeit games if he hadn’t always been there. Except for the winner’s own vote, it was unanimous. Most valuable player for the Asteroids is José Valdez.”
The room went wild. All the players rushed over to slap José on the back.
He was so stunned that he couldn’t get out of his seat.
“C’mon, José,” Matthew said. “Stop warming the bench and go get your trophy.” Everyone laughed. Then the whole team escorted him up to the front.
MVP. José traced the engraved letters on the trophy that lay beside his pillow that night. He smiled, remembering Coach’s words on the way home: “José, I sure hope you’ll be our bench warmer again next year. We need you!”
José hugged the trophy close. In the dark he whispered his answer: “You can count on me, Coach.”

Eleven-year-old John Roothoof lived in Rotterdam, Holland. He had once been happy going to school and church, playing with his friends, and doing all the things a boy enjoys. Then, without warning, a painful eye disease caused him to lose his sight. No longer could he go to school or read. He could not even see well enough to play with his friends. Each day was filled with darkness and suffering.
Word reached the Latter-day Saints in Holland that President Joseph F. Smith was coming to visit them. John thought about this for a long time, and then he said to his mother, “The prophet has the most power of any man on earth. If you’ll take me with you to the meeting so he can look into my eyes, I believe I’ll be healed.”
At the close of the meeting the next Sunday, President Smith went to the back of the small chapel to greet the people and shake hands with each one. Sister Roothoof helped John, his eyes bandaged, go with the others to speak to their beloved leader.
President Smith took the blind boy by the hand and then with great tenderness lifted the bandages and looked into John’s pain-filled eyes. The prophet blessed John and promised him he would see again.
Arriving home, John’s mother took the bandages from his eyes so she could bathe them as the doctors had told her to do. As she did so, John cried out with joy, “Oh, Mamma, my eyes are well. I can see fine now—and far too. And I can’t feel any pain!”

When I was serving as a missionary in northern Mexico, a few days after the baptismal service of the Valdez family, we received a telephone call from Brother Valdez asking us to come to his house. He had an important question for us. Now that he knew the will of the Lord regarding the Word of Wisdom, and even though it would be difficult to find a new job, he wondered if he should continue to work for the cigarette company where he had worked for many years. Only a few days later Brother Valdez again asked us to come by and visit him. He had decided to quit his job because he was not willing to go against his convictions. Then with a smile and emotion in his voice, he told us that the very day he quit his old job, another company had called to offer him a much better position.

The troops gathered early on a spring morning, just as the sun was breaking over the Montana hills. Mostly young men, they came in small clusters at first, a patrol here, another there, marshaling in the city park until their ranks were full. The ribbons and badges on their uniforms caught the fire of the dawning light.
You could tell by looking in their eyes that this was serious business. They came prepared for action, dressed in orange vests and hunting caps, wearing leather gloves. And they came heavily armed.
With trash bags.
For these were Scout troops, joined by Cub Scouts, some Girl Scouts, and a few other service groups. And their battle was an all-out war against litter.
This gathering of 289 in Missoula and others like it throughout the state would form an army of 7, 000. Dispersed in groups of four youth and two leaders per mile, they would clean Highway 93 from the Canadian border to Idaho. They would spruce up parts of Interstate 15. And working west from the North Dakota border, they would tidy significant stretches of Highway 2, Interstates 90 and 94, Highway 87, and other major thoroughfares.
By midday they would collect more than three million pounds of trash, including 2,000 pounds of recyclable glass and thousands of recyclable aluminum cans.
And they’d be home in time for lunch.
This one-day cleanup has been an annual affair for five years now. It started small, when LDS Scouts in northwest Montana decided to do something about trash on Highway 93. Their good example spread to district level, where “Project 93” drew 1,100 participants the first year, 2,000 the next, then went statewide as “Project Good Turn.”
Now people throughout the state are recognizing the contribution.
“The best part is when people honk and wave,” said Seth Tollefson, 12, of the Missoula Fourth Ward. “I think a lot of people are happy about what we’re doing.”
Indeed. One man traveling south out of Canada was so moved by the sight of mile after mile of volunteers, that he found their Scoutmaster and gave him $40. “Take your troop to lunch,” he said. Bakery trucks have stopped to hand out snacks. Soda pop truck drivers have spontaneously donated free drinks.
Community organizations have also chipped in. Amateur radio operators provide statewide communication. The highway department provides the trash bags and picks them up when they’re full. Radio and television stations air public service announcements advising motorists to slow down. The highway patrol cruises the areas being cleaned.
“A lot of the community knows that most of the Scouts are in on this, and that the Church sponsors a lot of the Scout troops around here,” said Cannon Flake, 16, of the Frenchtown Branch. “So they get a good impression of the Church when they see us out working.”
The younger boys eagerly tally what’s been gathered besides trash: keys, golf balls, tennis balls, a volleyball, an unexpired charge card (returned to the owner), a set of wrenches, cassette tapes, a warped record album, coins, a $10,000 cashier’s check (returned to the owner), a $10 bill (donated to the troop fund), a $50 bill (donated to the pack), and other souvenirs.
And leaders talk about increased camaraderie, since adults, priests, teachers, deacons, and Primary-age Cub Scouts all work together on the same project; and about how in ten years, there won’t be so much litter because Project Good Turn is making the youth aware of what a problem litter can be.
And, of course, there’s a noticeable improvement in the appearance of the highways. “One place we worked on looked like the city dump, but when we got done, it looked like somebody’s lawn,” said Scoutmaster Jim Bartmess of the Missoula Fourth Ward, Missoula Montana Stake.
But perhaps the greatest benefit of the Montana cleanup has been what it has done for the young men themselves. “It gave you a sense of accomplishment, like you’d done something instead of sitting around all day,” said Seth Shearer, 13, of the First Ward.
“Most people would call it a boring day,” said Joe Diesen, 15, of the same ward. “And it was tiring. But I didn’t feel really tired, because I knew that I was doing something that was right.”
Mark Fallentine, 17, of Frenchtown, had planned on sleeping in, then spending the day getting ready for a school dance. “Friday night, I got two calls from the priests quorum about the cleanup. Then Saturday morning I got a call from the branch president. So I went. But after we got out and started working, I felt really good about it. And now, just driving by the highway and looking at it, I can say, ‘Hey, I worked on this, and it looks real nice.’ It taught me that I ought to participate even when at first I don’t want to.”
“One of the coordinators caught our troop just as we were finishing our first stretch of highway,” said Brent Chipman, 13, of the Fourth Ward. “He said there was another place that needed to be done, and asked if we could help. We did two more sections, so we went the extra two miles!”
Dave Speer, 12, of the Second Ward, told a similar story. “We did a mile. Then they told us to go ahead and do another mile, because someone didn’t show up. So we went back and did another mile. It was cloudless almost, and it was so hot out there. After a while, we sat down on one of the railings by the side of the road, and as the semi trucks came by they would blow wind on you and cool you down. You knew you’d worked hard, but it felt good.”

In February 2017, I was working here at BYU-Idaho as the Institutional Planning Managing Director. One of my responsibilities at the time was providing budget support to the Online Learning and Pathway departments. On February 7, the Church announced the creation of BYU-Pathway Worldwide. With this announcement, the Pathway organization would be relocated from Rexburg to Salt Lake City. I remember thinking at the time, “I’m glad I don’t work directly for Pathway so I don’t have to move my family with the team.” Well, long story short, then-president Clark G. Gilbert asked me to be the Budget Officer for BYU-Pathway Worldwide and move my family with them.

I remember going home from work that day, waiting for our four young children to go to bed, and sitting down with my sweetheart and telling her about my conversation with President Gilbert. Tears flowed as we talked about the decision ahead and the impact it would have on our children. I still vividly remember the conversation. Some of it was Taunia asking the following questions:
Taunia: “Where will we live?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Taunia: “How much will you make?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Taunia: “What are the employee benefits?”
Me: “I don’t know. But the good news is we have a couple of weeks to decide!”
Ultimately we both agreed that, no matter the outcome, we wanted to do what was best for our little family and that the Lord knew what was best for us. We didn’t ever want to look back and wonder what might have been or have regrets for not trusting in Heavenly Father’s plan for us. So we fasted, prayed, and went to the temple, earnestly seeking direction from the Lord.

It became evident that we needed to accept this opportunity and move to Salt Lake. So we did. And it was hard, difficult, scary at times, and overwhelming. But it was also wonderful, faith-building, a tremendous opportunity in many ways, and we had so much peace knowing that we had subjected our will to the will of the Lord, and, no matter the outcome, it was where we were supposed to be. I will be forever grateful for the experiences we had in Utah, the friends we made, and the circumstances that allowed us to return back to Rexburg six years later.

Sister Katy Key, school teacher and Young Women President from the St Helier Ward in Jersey, works very closely with the Church of England Reverend Helen Gunton of the Grouville Parish Church.
Leading up to Remembrance Sunday, Katy got the pupils from the school and their parents involved to help make poppies that would convert a local meadow into a poppy meadow that the Grouville Remembrance Service Parade would pass by. A teaching assistant at the school made the silhouette of the soldier that was standing guard over the meadow.
The parish news and social media has been very positive about the installation of the poppies saying, “the praise for the poppy installation has been wide and generous”. The Connétable (Constable) and the Seigneur of the local manor have also highly praised the installation.
Katy said “It was lovely and quite moving to help a new generation understand the sacrifice that soldiers made in the First World War in such a practical way.”
On Armistice Day, Katy’s school class went to the poppy meadow where they took part in the two-minute silence. Every class from the school has spent time visiting the poppy meadow since the poppy meadow was created.

At last Benito reached Oaxaca. It had taken him three days to walk down the mountain from the hut where he had lived with his uncle for the past nine years. Benito was only three years old when both of his parents died, and he could not remember either of them. Nor could he remember having had enough to eat or to wear. Benito spent each day herding his uncle’s sheep near the pool at the bottom of the towering snow-capped peaks while he dreamed of some day going to Oaxaca to find his sister Josefa who lived there. In Oaxaca there might also be hope of good food, decent clothing, and a chance to go to school. There was so much Benito wanted to know!
His bare brown feet were blistered from the three-day journey. His clothes were almost in tatters. Benito carried with him only a gourd from which to drink, and he ate the few berries he picked from the bushes along the way.
When Benito reached the city he found that the people in the market place spoke a language he did not understand and so they could not answer any of his questions. Benito Juarez was a Zapotec Indian, and he had never heard Spanish spoken before he reached Oaxaca, Mexico. For a moment he almost wished he were back with the sheep. But when Benito remembered how often his uncle had beaten him and how he had sent him to find a sheep that had either strayed or been stolen, Benito pushed back his thin shoulders and kept walking and asking questions until he found someone who helped him find his sister.
Nearly thirty years later Benito was elected governor of Oaxaca. In 1861, when he was fifty-five years of age, Benito Juarez was elected president of all Mexico.
The story of the ragged shepherd boy who was always proud of his Indian heritage, who ignored the cruelty of his schoolmates because he was so eager to learn, and who suffered many hardships all through his life is a thrilling one to read. It is well known to children throughout Mexico, and a statue of this great man stands in almost every city and village. Even streets and schools and cities have been named after him.
Benito Juarez lived during a very crucial time. Many historians believe the dream of liberty and education for all that Benito carried with him down the mountain from his uncle’s hut did more to shape the destiny of Mexico than anything else. Benito Juarez is honored as the liberator of his country, and these words he spoke long ago are still found painted on walls throughout Mexico: “For nations, as well as for individuals, respect for the rights of others is peace.”

Years ago as a missionary I looked forward to a visit of the relatively young apostle Elder Gordon B. Hinckley. He was deeply revered by the Japanese Saints and had been highly involved in the growth of the Church in post–World War II Japan. He loved all people but seemed to have a special affinity for those in this once war-torn nation.

Elder Hinckley arrived late one evening, very tired and suffering from jet lag. The following day he faced a rigorous schedule, which included much travel and several teaching opportunities. As he arose very early the next morning, he had every reason to seek privacy as he prepared for the day, but that was not what he chose to do. Elder Hinckley asked the first missionaries he encountered that morning—Elders Evans and Cox—if they would accompany him into the streets of Tokyo, where he desired to communicate with the good people of that city. Although he spoke a surprising amount of Japanese, he felt that the two missionaries might be of some value in helping him communicate with those he would meet that morning. We spent the next hour contacting people on the streets of Tokyo, recognizing them and their individual worth and informing them of our faith. President Hinckley loved all people and sought to serve them throughout his long life. He did not avoid others!

Let me tell you how I met my wife. We were both students at BYU and lived in the same ward—but I did not know her. For several weeks I noticed a very pretty girl walk into Sacrament meeting, usually during the opening song. The doors to the chapel were in the front of the room, so she had to walk in front of everyone to take her seat. I noticed her as she walked in. She was very attractive, but for some reason unknown to me, I did not pursue getting to know her. This scenario was repeated on many Sundays.

During this same time I was serving in the Elder’s quorum presidency. Each month I interviewed a particular home teacher who went faithfully to his homes every month. Whenever he reported visiting with a certain Lynne Cowan, it made a big impression on me. Her name stuck in my mind—Lynne Cowan. I did not know who “Lynne Cowan” was. Now I had two mysteries that plagued me—who was Lynne Cowan and who was the pretty girl that came into church during the opening song?

By the end of the semester I was determined to discover exactly who Lynne Cowan was. My roommate was a know-it-all kind of a guy—kind of like the home-teacher-at large to all the girls in the ward. I said to him, “Larry, who is Lynne Cowan?” He burst out laughing and said, “You don’t know who the prettiest girl in the ward is?” He was nearly aghast that I didn’t know her. He said, “She is that attractive girl that comes into sacrament meeting during the opening song.” In that explanation he quickly solved my two mysteries in one statement—who was Lynne Cowan and who was the pretty girl at church.

At the ward closing social, as I was leaving with another girl, Lynne was arriving. I spoke to her for the first time. I said, “Hi, Lynne.” She appeared shocked that I knew her name. At that moment I wished that I was not committed to leaving with the other girl.

Two weeks after I graduated from BYU I returned from Idaho to the BYU campus to get certified as a school teacher. Immediately I called Lynne and asked her out. We had a date every night for three weeks, and then I proposed to her. She accepted. We were married two months later. We were so happy!

It was not until sometime after we were married that it came clear to me how carefully I had been guided and prompted by the Spirit to find her. It had never occurred to me during this long process that I was receiving thoughts and feelings from the Spirit. I see it now. It is obvious to me. I am so grateful for the guidance I received then and have sought diligently to more readily recognize the promptings of the covenantal gift of the Holy Ghost.

While I was walking off the playground one late afternoon, after several weeks of helping out at the school, the principal pulled me off to the side.

The children were playing on the playground equipment they had earned by collecting Campbell’s Soup labels.

“See that little girl over there?” he asked, pointing to a skinny, olive-skinned, dark-haired girl sitting on the steps.

I nodded.

“She came to us last year from the public school system. The teachers said she was slow, uncooperative and noncommunicative. No one could reach her to teach her. So they sent her here as a last resort. She has really come out of her shell here with these kids.”

I noticed the girl was hugging a young student after he had fallen down.

“But she won’t respond to any adults. As soon as one of the teachers tries to engage her in something, she clams up and stares and won’t respond.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because we’ve tried everything we know and she still won’t respond. I’ve even worked with her myself.”

Then the principal paused.

“And there’s something else,” he said. “I was going through her records today. When she was tested—when she first entered school—she had a very high I.Q. By the time they sent her to us, her I.Q. had dropped to an infantile level. Her hands are deformed, and she has a wooden leg. The records report that she was treated badly by the other public students. But the kids here don’t make fun of her. They adore her. She is everyone’s second mother.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked again.

“I thought maybe you could reach her somehow.”

“I’ll try.”

From that time on I made it a point to observe this little girl every chance I got. I read her records and found out her name was Monica. She was 12 years old. A mother was listed on her records but no father. I noticed Monica spent a lot of time by the piano in the classroom. Because her fingers were deformed and small, she would sometimes start banging on the keys with her palms until all the other children were laughing and stomping their feet. At this point, the teacher would drag her away from the piano and take her to the principal’s office.

I watched the teachers and aids approach Monica with games, papers, blocks, and books. But she wouldn’t respond in any way.

Sometimes I’d sit down at the piano and play a couple of tunes. Monica would stand near the piano and listen. Once I noticed her squatting down at the side of the piano and placing her ear up against the wood.

One afternoon as I was playing, she came over to the bench and sat down next to me. Then she pushed my hands off the piano and began pounding on the keys with her palms. I gently took her hand and rolled it into a fist. Then I guided her hand to the piano and showed her how to play a simple tune that my mother had taught me as a child. It was a tune that she could play by rolling a fist down the black keys.

Monica quickly caught on and played the tune over and over. From that moment, she seemed to sense that I was her friend.

One morning during recess, I noticed Monica crouching beside a bush near the entrance to the school. I walked up behind her and could see that she was studying a chrysalis hanging precariously on a twig. The butterfly inside was almost free, struggling desperately to free its wings.

“You know,” I said whispering next to her ear, “that used to be just a funny looking caterpillar. Now look at it. In a few minutes it will be a beautiful butterfly.”

Monica didn’t say a word. In a moment the butterfly was separating its damp wings, and the gentle breeze soon dried the bright orange and black pattern. Moments later the breeze lifted the delicate wing expanse and the butterfly was gone. Monica cupped her hands and with them she followed the butterfly into the air as if attempting to follow.

Then she turned and looked at me. She looked me directly in the eye. Deep, dark, and brown, her eyes were wet and soft and imploring. In that brief instant, I knew. Monica was not mentally retarded. She was trapped somewhere deep inside.

“I want …” she said.

Then her eyes darted to the ground, and she ran up the stone stairs and into the school.

I suddenly realized that Monica had found some kind of security and love with the mentally retarded children that she could not find in the public school system and at home. Her infantile behavior was simply her way of making sure she could stay here. If she responded to any adult and showed her intelligence, she knew she would be put back into a system where she had been abused.

Weeks grew into months, and soon Monica and I were good friends. But whenever I questioned her about her home, she would avoid the questions and change the subject.

“I like the way you smile at me,” Monica said to me one day. “My mother never smiles at me.”

Later I found out from the principal that Monica lived alone with her mother. Her mother was on welfare and spent most of her days sleeping and most of her nights going from bar to bar. She often had different men living with her. Much of the time there was little or no food at the house.

When Monica had progressed sufficiently that the principal thought she was ready to return to the public schools, he asked me to speak to her about it.

After I talked to Monica, she pulled away from me and told me she would do or act any way she had to to stay at the school.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights wondering what to do. Finally, one morning it came to me. That afternoon I talked to Monica about my idea. She agreed enthusiastically, so I went to the principal.

We worked out a plan where Monica could obtain the regular public school textbooks and materials for her age level and remain at the special school. Then Monica would spend each day doing her regular school work with a little help from the teacher and student aids.

The teachers and principal were amazed at how quickly she grasped her subjects and how quickly she progressed.

My course work became more and more difficult at college, and my hours at Monica’s school became less and less.

Four years later, after my graduation, I walked down to the special school to say good-bye. Most of the same students were there, but they were older now. Monica had developed into a strikingly beautiful young lady.

She had gone through her class work so quickly and well that she had taken her college entrance exams earlier that spring and had been admitted to college on scholarship at the age of 16 for the next fall.

Monica’s teacher was still telling Kenny to “Shh!” when he told his corny jokes. The principal was a little balder and plumper.

The children gave me a going-away party with cake, streamers, hugs, and tears. Monica proudly showed me her college scholarship and admission papers.

The principal put his arm around Monica’s shoulder and said, “You know I’ll be retiring in a few years. I think Monica would make a great replacement for me, don’t you?”

I don’t know what happened to Monica after that. After college I moved away, married, and had children of my own. But I have often thought about her.

Another story of a different kind of courage is told of Ruth Campkin Randall, a tiny mother who had spent enough time on the frontier to become accustomed to its risks. As a safeguard from marauding enemies around Pine, Arizona, where she lived, a stockade was built. When an Indian or other raid was reported, all the residents were to get into this enclosure for protection. This occurred frequently enough that Ruth got tired of it. Finally, when a call came for all to go to the fort, Ruth said, “No, I have been dragged from pillar to post and from the post to hell, and I am not going to the fort. I’m staying right here.”11 Others soon decided she was right; there was no longer any point in running to the fort every time some Indians were headed in their direction.

One inspiring story about leadership in the home is about a mother named Katie Davis Majors, a young woman from Tennessee who had always dreamed of traveling the world and doing something meaningful with her life. So, at the age of 18, she decided to take a gap year and volunteer at an orphanage in Uganda.

During her year in Uganda, Katie fell in love with the children she was caring for and with the country itself. She decided to stay in Uganda permanently, and she eventually founded a non-profit organization that helps provide education and healthcare to children in need.

But even more than her work in Uganda, Katie is known for her leadership in her own home. She and her husband have 13 adopted children, many of whom have special needs. Katie is a devoted mother who has created a warm and loving home for her children, despite the many challenges they face. Katie’s leadership in her home is characterized by patience, kindness, and selflessness—three additional qualities on our Top 10 list. Katie has taught her children the importance of hard work, perseverance, and compassion, and she leads by example, putting their needs before her own.

Katie’s story is a powerful reminder that leadership isn’t just about what you do outside the home—it’s also about how you lead within your own family. Her example shows that the qualities of a great leader can have a transformative effect on those around you.