Gospel Story Finder

In Alaska, LDS teenagers who live in the towns of Wasilla, Palmer, and Eagle River look at the Anchorage Alaska Temple and know that something of theirs is safe inside. They were fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time to make a promise, sign their names to it, then have those pledges sealed inside the cornerstone of the temple at the dedication.
The promise they signed was quite short. It said simply: “As I prepare for marriage and a mission, I will live the standards of worthiness for entrance into the house of the Lord.” It was a promise that many of them were willing to make, but now that the promise is literally encased in stone in the temple and sealed with mortar, these young people have taken it very seriously.
“This was a goal I had previously made,” says Katie Green of the Eagle River Second Ward, “but had never put on paper. When I was given the opportunity to do so, I jumped at it. I didn’t just sign it; I pondered it. To me a promise is a promise and cannot be broken, especially with our Father in Heaven. Living the standards of worthiness doesn’t mean just not crossing the line. It means that we must live as far away from that line as possible.”

In the colder months, I enjoy wearing sweaters. When my wife, Bonnie, and I married, I owned a maroon sweater one of my brothers-in-law had given me some years earlier. I had worn the sweater a great deal, and the fabric had noticeably thinned at the elbows.

My wife is talented with a crochet hook and makes beautiful things with that tool. Bonnie had crocheted herself several sweaters beginning when she was in 4-H as a girl. She decided, either because she couldn’t find a ready-made one or because she couldn’t find one that was within our Christmas gift budget, that she would crochet one to replace my beloved but worn sweater.

Her intent was both to please and to surprise. On Christmas morning, however, it became apparent—as it had not been while she crocheted it—that the sweater was too bulky. It was not only apparent to Bonnie; I knew it as well, and it showed on my face. While Bonnie would no doubt tell you that she was sorry about the sweater’s bulkiness, I know that her sorrow was compounded by my selfish first thought about how I would look wearing it rather than by thinking first about the love that had gone into it. I had not truly received her gift. Gratefully, I have since received her forgiveness.

While I could illustrate this with many examples from my own life, let me illustrate it using the example of my son-in-law Rob. Rob grew up in a family that loved airplanes and was fascinated by how they were made. His grandfather had been an engineer and eventually the CEO of an aerospace firm, and his dad had been in the air force. As a boy, Rob attended air shows, built model airplanes, and read everything he could about designing and making airplanes.

As an undergraduate at BYU, he studied mechanical engineering but became intrigued with composites and their use in airframe manufacturing. As a senior project, he designed, built, and tested a rocket made with composites. Fortunately for our family, he also met and married our daughter Kristen, which we are very happy about. He then went on to graduate school at Purdue earning a PhD in Aerospace Engineering.

Rob’s first job out of graduate school was as an engineer in a Division of Raytheon that manufactured business jets. Subsequently, he moved to Lockheed in Fort Worth, TX and continued to learn as he worked on the design and manufacture of the joint strike fighter aircraft. I discovered just how much Rob loved aircraft and learning about them when he and our daughter visited in London while we were on our mission there. One Saturday, we visited the air museum at Duxbury, England (near Cambridge) where they have six hangers filled with over 600 different aircraft. I learned that Rob knew details about each of those aircraft, their design, their manufacture, and their performance.

Over the years, Rob has become an expert not just at the engineering and manufacture of airframes using composites but also at the CAD models applied in doing so. He has continued his learning and is now a full-time faculty member in Engineering at the University of Texas where he is setting up a course on additive manufacturing using 3D printing and also establishing a lab that can be used by other faculty and their students. Rob loves helping students and seeing them succeed. While many years ago he entered a CES institution to learn and then went forth to serve, he continues to do so for the purposes of blessing his own family, his students, and all of those he works with.

He truly does his part to learn line upon line and precept upon precept by preparing, engaging, and improving by applying what he has learned and then repeating the process. While I don’t know a lot about airplanes, I love talking with Rob about them because he is always so excited to share what he has been learning. One of our key goals at BYU–Hawaii is to help each of you become that kind of lifetime learner by helping you prepare your heart to learn with the goal of blessing and serving your family and others.

Two months ago, a person who is not a member of our church, Michael Harris, an expert skier, was buried alive in an avalanche at a place called Stevens Pass, Washington. Unfortunately, that day, he was skiing alone and did not have a beacon signaling device on him. Alone and entombed, he did the only thing he could think of that might help him. He prayed, saying: “Heavenly Father, I am in a bad way. I need help, and I think you’re the only one that can give it to me. I don’t know how you could do this, but I need you to tell someone where I am and how to get to me.”

That “someone” was his wife, Penny. She had been tracking her husband on and off that morning on her iPhone. When she noticed that the tracking dot was no longer moving, and that he had stopped answering her texts, she sensed something was wrong. She immediately drove one hour up to the pinned location, and with the help of the ski patrol, located exactly where her husband was. They dug him out, and saved his life. He had been buried for four hours. While he had a broken leg and suffered some lung damage, he suffered no frostbite and had a clear air passage and required no CPR.

Last summer was one of setting and achieving many goals for the youth of the West Jordan Fifth Ward, West Jordan Utah Stake—not the least of which was a 100-mile bike ride to the Manti Temple pageant. Youth committees were called and meetings were held to make the necessary plans and physical preparations. Each person was challenged to ride one hour every day but Sunday, and Salt Lake County extension agents conducted workshops on physical fitness, nutrition, and bicycle safety and repair.
During practice rides, repair kits were always carried for those inevitable flat tires or loose spokes, and ice cream stops became a regular part of the bike riding on Mutual nights. Several trial runs were planned during the summer months, including outings to the Great Salt Lake, the Deseret Gym in Salt Lake City, Copperton Park (uphill all the way!), and the This Is the Place Monument.
Two days before they left, a bike rodeo was held where riding skills were tested, road skills were gone over, and every bike was checked for fitness by the teachers quorum. Finally the day of the trip arrived. Each bike was equipped with a water bottle and gaily colored flag. The only vehicles allowed to accompany the 26 bike-riders were the “water wagon,” which carried food and large cans of cool water to replenish empty water bottles; the bishop’s “tow truck” containing luggage and space for broken-down bicycles; and the Ashworth motor home where the exhausted could ride and meals were prepared. In addition, Brother Loosli followed the last bike all the way, his lights flashing to provide warning to approaching cars and protection for everyone.
Lunch and meal breaks, as well as two stops for swimming, gave everyone the energy to successfully complete the two-day trip. The last mile was straight uphill, and tears of pain, joy, and pride clouded the vision of the bikers as the beautiful Manti Temple came into view. Physically the young people were drained, but spiritually they were full with the sense of accomplishment and togetherness that comes from working together toward a common goal. After viewing the pageant they spent the night in cabins and returned home in automobiles the next morning.

When Lawrence was 13 we were expecting our seventh child, and again I was concerned for my wife’s well-being. I tried not to alarm my family. However, I had told Lawrence about some of the difficulties connected with his birth, and this affected him greatly.
When I took Merlene to the hospital I told the family I would call them and let them know how their mother was and whether they had a little brother or sister. After Paul was born, I called home and Lawrence answered. I told him the good news and said I would be home in a little while. When I went home I told them all about their new baby brother and that their mother was doing well. That evening as I left the house to go to the hospital, Lawrence handed me a letter to give to his mother. When I arrived, I gave her a kiss, then handed her the letter. Her eyes moistened as she read it; then she handed it to me. It said:
“To my favorite and most loved Mother. Congratulations. When Dad phoned us and told us we had a little brother I just about freaked. After you left to go to the hospital I went in Dad’s den and knelt down to have prayer to ask Heavenly Father to bless you that you would be all right. Well my prayer was answered. After Dad came home he told how just before the baby was born you gritted your teeth and tears flowed down your cheeks but you wouldn’t cry out. I kind of got this unstuckable lump in my throat.
“I’m working on my hiking merit badge.
“Love, Lawrence”

Every Saturday at ten o’clock, Mama takes Brett and me to the library. That’s when our Library Grandma reads.

The other children grab books and yell, “Read mine! Read mine!” Brett and I sit quietly, like people should in a library.

Our Library Grandma gathers the grabby grumblers and growls like a grouchy gorilla. She reads wild stories for wild children. Her hair springs from the bun on the top of her head. Her arms wave and her feet stomp. Her eyes squint and her brow wrinkles. The wide-eyed children hold their breath.

“Don’t stop, Grandma,” they beg when it’s time to go. “Read to us all day.” They love her, but we love her the best.

After our Library Grandma finishes reading to all the children each Saturday, we pick out books to take home. When Mama comes to get us, she gives our Library Grandma a ride home too. At our house, she comes in. Brett and I give her our library books and yell, “Read mine! Read mine!” Then our Library Grandma, our very own real Grandma, hugs us—and reads to us all day!

Another experience that testifies that faith can move mountains is the experience with our son Nephi his junior season of high school.

In August of 2015, it was the start of another football season for our family. We just sent off our oldest son to college and it was the next son in line to be the focus of high school football. It was the first game of the season and on the third play my son was in man coverage and he broke on the ball and the receiver was in the air. My son lowered his shoulder while the receiver was coming down and when they hit my son fell straight down and couldn’t get up.

Being a football mom anytime something happened to my sons the coaches knew that I was sure to make my way down to the field. I was relieved that my son was able to stand up and walk off the field and knowing my kids no matter how injured they are they always tried to get back into the game. I was glad to see that they took his helmet away. At the time I believe they ruled him out of the game with a concussion. It wasn’t until half time or beginning of third quarter that my son asked if I could go with him into the locker room to take off his jersey. It was then that I noticed that something was not right. He said, “Mom can you help me take off my jersey. I can’t lift my arms.” I quickly helped him take off his jersey and said, “Son, we need to go to the hospital to get you checked.” I then drove him to the hospital and told them what had happened and then they started to run scans and tests on him. My kids know anytime we are at the hospital I am silently saying my prayers and talking to my angels. By this time the game was done and my husband who was an assistant coach at the time joined us at the hospital. The doctor came back and showed us his x-rays of his neck and showed us that he would need to undergo major surgery. With this news I was taken back to the time of our daughter’s incident. I felt peace again knowing we have been here before. I silently said a prayer, saying, “Lord you have worked miracles in our lives before and I know you will work your miracle again.” I remember that was the first time that I didn’t cry. I just had this overwhelming sense of peace that all will be okay. The next morning, he was scheduled for the procedure. Again, grateful for the prayers and faith of those who all were concerned for our son the procedure went well. That Monday after his surgery he was up and walking and showed signs of mobility in hands and legs. But we were in for a long journey to full recovery.

My son had his mind set that he was going to play football again. Every doctor’s appointment he would ask, “Doc, when am I going to be cleared to play?” We all would try our best to help him focus on just fully healing. But, all Nephi was focused on was getting back on the field. Each Friday night game Nephi was there to support the team. But with each loss you can see the sense of disappointment and frustration he had in not being able to help the team. Things got dark for my son and you can see this injury was taking a toll on his spirit. I would always say to my son just as my mother did to me “don’t lose faith.” I remember one of the games he called me to say that he wasn’t going. This was one of those difficult weeks where he was moody. I not wanting to deal with his attitude was content to leave him at home and go to the game myself. But I had an overwhelming feeling to go home and check on him. When I got home and went to his room. I found him laying in the middle of the room with his room flipped upside down. I remember something telling me to just hug him. So, I did and we didn’t say anything and just cried together. All I could say to him was how much I loved him. It was this moment that changed my parenting to, President Monson's quote: “Never let a problem to be solved be more important than a person to be loved.” [2]

The next doctor's appointment, my son brought a piece of paper to show his doctor information about a player in the NFL that broke his neck and was still playing. We could see that he was not going to accept not playing the game again. The next appointment the doctor told Nephi that he made some calls to doctors in the NFL and that they gave 3 things that would clear him to start on the road back to the game. 1) Solid Fusion 2) Range of Motion 3) Cognitive Exam. That was all my son needed to hear. In March 2016—seven months after his incident he was cleared to participate in the Nike Opening in Los Angeles. He was able to participate in the contactless drills. This was the beginning of his road back to playing football again. Many may have thought that my husband and I were crazy to let our son play the sport again. But, to us we were grateful for the light and happiness that we saw in his demeanor. Because it was better than the dark cloud that was trying to consume him. We understood the risk and he understood it, too. We knew this was part of his journey with God and building his own faith. We have watched our son Nephi play his senior year and at the college level. He is now fulfilling his dreams of playing in the NFL. We can honestly say this is the happiest we have seen him. He is currently with the New Orleans Saints and we are forever grateful for the faith he has knowing that Jesus got him no matter what.

It had been a great day at school. Jeff had spent all recess playing dragons with his best friend, Ben. After two years at his new school, Jeff was glad to finally have a best friend. Ben liked the same things as Jeff did, and they always had lots to talk about.
When Jeff got home, he saw Mom waiting for him. She didn’t look happy at all. His smile faded away. “Jeff,” Mom said, “I got a call from the principal today. She said you’ve been bullying a boy in your class.”
“I have not!” Jeff said. He knew that being a bully was wrong. A bully made people sad and afraid. Jeff had never done anything like that.
“Are you sure?” Mom asked. She made room on the couch for Jeff. “The principal said you and Ben told Sam to go away, that he’s not in your club, and that he can’t join unless he jumps off the top of the slide.”
Jeff looked down. Sam asked to play with them almost every day. But Ben was his best friend, and they liked playing by themselves. That didn’t mean he had been a bully, did it?
“Is it wrong for Ben and me to play alone?” Jeff asked. It didn’t seem fair that someone called him a bully just for playing with his best friend.
“You two can still spend lots of time together. But when Sam is around, it’s wrong to make him feel left out and alone. The principal said you called Sam names for not jumping off the slide.”
“I did not!” Jeff said. But Ben had. And he had laughed.
“Remember how you felt when we first moved?” Mom asked.
Jeff nodded. School had been really lonely at first. He had prayed a lot to find a good friend.
“What do you wish people had done?” Mom asked.
“I wished they’d invited me to play games at recess. Or sit with them at lunch.”
“Isn’t it amazing that you have such a good friend now?” Mom said. “You can be someone who helps people who are lonely, like you used to be. I’m going to give you a challenge. Tomorrow I want you to find out three cool things about Sam. Then tell me after school.”
“I can probably do that,” Jeff said, staring at his shoes. He hadn’t meant to be a bully. He wanted to be kind like Jesus. Tomorrow he could tell Sam he was sorry. And he could tell Ben that he wanted Sam to play too.
“Hey,” said Mom. She tipped Jeff’s chin up. “You are a good, kind boy. Sam would be lucky to have you as a friend. And guess what? I bet you’ll find out you’re lucky to have Sam as a friend too.”
Jeff smiled a little. Ben could still be his best friend. It wouldn’t hurt to have another friend too.

One of the bishop’s duties was to send to every serviceman a subscription to the Church News and to the Improvement Era and to write a personal letter to him each month. Since President Monson had served in the navy in World War II, he appreciated the importance of a letter from home. He had 23 ward members serving in the military, so he called a sister in the ward to handle the details of mailing these letters. One evening he handed her the monthly stack of 23 letters.
“Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged?” she asked. “Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”
“Well, maybe this will be the month,” he said. It was. The reply from Brother Bryson read: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters. Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”
President Monson saw in that letter the practical application of the adage “Do your duty, that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.” Years later, while attending a stake conference, he spoke of his experience of writing to the servicemen. After the meeting, a young man came up to him and asked, “Bishop, do you remember me?”
Without a pause President Monson replied, “Brother Bryson! How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”
The former serviceman replied with great pleasure that he was fine and serving in his elders quorum presidency. “Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”5

My grandfather lost his eyesight, but he had lots of spiritual insight. He served as a patriarch for more than 30 years. Students from nearby Ricks College (now BYU–Idaho) and others would come to see my grandpa. He would take them into the little room my family had built for him to give blessings in. Often he fasted before giving patriarchal blessings. My grandpa blessed many people throughout his life, and helped them learn to live closer to our Heavenly Father.

By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

Youth in Fargo, North Dakota, know how to live within their means. When their leaders announced they were going to have a stake-sponsored formal dance, they were excited. Then the leaders dropped the bomb: No one could spend more than five dollars on what they wore to the dance.
“When I heard we could only spend five dollars, I was a bit skeptical,” says Becky LaDuke, a Mia Maid. “But I found two great dresses at a thrift store, and it only cost me four dollars. I guess you don’t have to have a lot of money to have a good time, because I had a blast.”
People found different ways to adhere to the budget rule. Some borrowed clothes from friends, others remade thrift-store items, and a few wore things they already had in their closets. A couple of enterprising priests even secured a matching set of powder-blue tuxedos from the school’s drama department costume collection.
The dance was a huge success, proving that low-budget doesn’t have to mean no fun.

The summer before I turned 16, my dad decided that he wanted to get as many of our family members together as he could and take us all on a camping trip. My grandparents came and so did many of Dad’s brothers and sisters, along with their families. We made a large, rambunctious group, and I often felt like I was in heaven on that camping trip, surrounded by the beauty of the mountains and among the people I loved most.
At the time my dad was also my bishop and, while at camp, we had very unique patriarchal blessing interview. One night, as the sun set and the moon began to rise, we took a canoe out onto the lake near our campsite. The water was still and serene as we glided over the surface and talked about my blessing.
We stayed out in the boat for a long time, enjoying the beauty of the stars that were beginning to come out. Then suddenly, from far across the lake, we heard singing. The sound carried easily over the water, now glistening with starlight. I immediately recognized the voices of my grandparents. They were singing Grandpa’s favorite hymn, “Brightly Beams Our Father’s Mercy” (Hymns, no. 335). In this hymn it speaks of Heavenly Father as a lighthouse keeper who guides His children safely in from the troubled sea. I think Grandpa’s favorite part is when it calls us the keepers of the “lights along the shore.” It means that while our Heavenly Father is the great guiding light, we need to tend the “lower lights” along the shore to help bring our brothers and sisters safely home.
We listened to Grandma and Grandpa sing: “Let the lower lights be burning; Send a gleam across the wave. Some poor fainting, struggling seaman You may rescue, you may save.”
At the moment they started this chorus, a beam of light shone out in a bright path across the water. Grandpa had pulled a flashlight from his pocket and, every time the song mentioned light, he switched it on and used it to guide us safely in.
Dad and I laughed with them and started rowing back to shore. I treasure that memory and will always remember my grandparents’ voices and their light guiding us in over the dark water.

In June 1977 in the Alkazar Hotel above Wadi Jos in east Jerusalem, I talked to the owner and some of his Arab friends. One of them, Riad Tahbamb, said, “You Christians don’t know anything about the Moslems’ beliefs. The Moslems believe in Jesus, the son of the Virgin Mary. No true Arab can be a true Moslem and not believe in Jesus, the son of the Virgin Mary.” I asked him if he believed Jesus to be his Savior and his Redeemer, and that he rose from the tomb. He replied, “We believe in his ascension, that Jesus never died. We believe in Jesus the Messiah. You Christians don’t know what Messiah means.” I informed him that Messiah in the Greek is Christ, meaning the Anointed One.

“Oh no,” exclaimed Tahbamb, “it means the Eraser—one who wipes out.”

I asked, “Does that mean he makes your life as though it were a clean sheet?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Mr. Tahbamb, if you accept Jesus as your Savior and Redeemer and obey his commandments and repent of your sins, then they will be erased by him, and you’ll start with a clean sheet,” for
He marked the path And led the way, And every point defines To life and light And endless day Where God’s full presence shines.

One of the wonderful experiences a young husband can anticipate is that of watching his bride learn how to cook. While some young women enter marriage already skilled in the art of cooking, many do not. For some the learning curve can be very steep.

My wife, Sister Ball, is a wonderful cook. Over the years she has polished and refined her culinary skills to the point that now I am confident she could walk into a strange kitchen and prepare a delicious and nutritious meal out of whatever she found in the pantry and refrigerator. Still, some of the early meals she prepared for us as a young couple were real gastronomical adventures. But to this day I consider one of her early successes a true miracle in the kitchen. Somehow she managed to transform broccoli into something edible. The rave reviews I gave the dish encouraged her to make the recipe a regular part of our menu.

At that time we were living in a small town in southeastern Arizona, where I had my first assignment as a seminary teacher. The town had two major roads, appropriately named Poverty Flats and Hog Holler. We lived at the end of Hog Holler Road in a small home sandwiched between a chili field and the desert. The nearest full-service grocery store was more than 30 miles away. Consequently, kitchen commodities often ran short between trips to the store. To compensate, Sister Ball got in the habit of experimenting with substitutes for ingredients that were temporarily unavailable.

The results of her experiments were very unpredictable. On one occasion she began preparing the remarkable broccoli dish, only to discover that she did not have the cream of mushroom soup the recipe required. She decided to make her own “white sauce” from a little flour and water to substitute for the soup. (What she called “white sauce” I would call “paste.”) She reasoned that the soup was white and lumpy, and so was her flour and water concoction. The result of the substitution was a disaster. Without the proper ingredients, the true nature of broccoli was left exposed—it was no longer palatable. Sister Ball learned from that experience that color and texture are no substitutes for taste.

Following that failure, Sister Ball removed the broccoli dish from her repertoire. She no longer trusted the recipe. However, if you were to ask her about it today, she would confess that the fault was not with the dish but with her, for she had failed to hearken unto the commandments of the recipe. She thought that she could change it or twist it to her own will without consequence.

In truth, her initial confidence in the recipe was not misplaced, but that confidence could only be confirmed if she diligently abided by the recipe’s instructions. So it is with your testimony and understanding of the restored gospel: It will be best confirmed and informed by your education if you diligently follow the recipe by keeping the commandments of God.

One Sunday, my Primary friends Rebecca and Crystal were going to another ward.
That would make me the oldest child in my Primary class. I was pleased, but two of the boys sometimes don’t respect me—maybe because I play with them too much. So I try to be a better person.
One of the two boys, Sammy,* doesn’t always pay attention in class. Sometimes he makes fun of me and makes me angry. But I decided to not get so angry. That’s how you become a better leader. Jesus Christ would not get angry if He was here. I know that Jesus is true and is our Savior. It’s hard to be a good leader, but it is good to be a leader like Jesus Christ.

Paper stars. I am half Thai and half American. I spent three years living in Laos, next to Thailand. For the first two years we were in Laos, my parents hired a pileang, or nanny, named Rojana, who took good care of me. Since she was Buddhist, I didn’t expect a gift from her at Christmas.
On Christmas morning I found a jar filled with at least a hundred tiny paper stars, folded so they were three-dimensional. They were blue and pink and glittery. Rojana had no money to buy me anything, so she spent hours folding those stars for a child who wasn’t her own.
It was a wonderful Christmas gift, a gift of time and dedication.Faye H., Virginia

“Wow, did you see that catch?” my seven-year-old son, Weslon, exclaimed in delight. He wished aloud, “I’d sure like to meet some of those guys.”
As family members of a high school varsity cheerleader, we frequently found ourselves at football games. My husband, Rick, and I and Weslon became involved in the games as well as in watching our daughter, Mitzi. Football heroes had blossomed in Weslon’s impressionable mind by halftime of our third home game at Round Valley High School in Eagar, Arizona.
Battling my own shyness, I determined to help this stargazing, bashful boy. “We’ll go talk to some of the guys,” I told him after the game. I then towed my son onto the field into the crowd. We approached one of his heroes and tried to offer congratulations. The young man breezed by, aware only of himself and two chattering girls who had cut in front of us to reach him. The next player mumbled “thanks” without breaking stride as I told him “good game” and tried to tell him he had an admirer.
Reluctantly, we approached the last player, wary of another snub. As I told him what a good job he had done, Ty Workman stopped in his tracks, football helmet in hands, flashed a smile of nice white teeth and said, “Thank you very much!”
Encouraged, I plunged into telling him of Weslon’s admiration. Ty’s black hair and handsome face dripped with sweaty exertion as he listened. He extended his hand to shake Weslon’s and said, “Thanks buddy. What’s your name?”
My son quietly said, “Weslon,” and ducked his sandy blond head to examine Ty’s cleats.
I told Ty, “Weslon likes the way you catch passes.” Ty beamed at him and said, “Thanks a lot. I’m really glad to meet you, Weslon, buddy.”
Mitzi went to school the next day and told Ty, “My little brother thinks you’re pretty neat.” From that point she relayed messages between Ty and Weslon. Soon the two boys became real buddies. After each football game they could be found together with Ty’s arm draped around Weslon, chatting about the plays. We attended every football game, even those out of town.
As we became acquainted with Ty, we found he was popular with everyone—young and old. He didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, and he had good moral values. He encouraged Weslon to avoid harmful things and often repeated his favorite phrase, “Stay close to the Lord.”
Several weeks into this friendship, Mitzi came home from school with some disturbing news. Her face a mask of disbelief, she said, “This is so sad. Ty has MS—you know, multiple sclerosis. They said he might not live longer than a year.” Weslon’s face fell as we told him what MS was. A heavy silence came over us as we realized the gravity of Ty’s illness.
In the next few months Ty had several attacks requiring hospitalizations. He lost lots of weight but forced himself to shine on the football field. Ty, along with Mitzi, was also a member of Show Choir, a singing and dancing group. He made it to many taxing practices and performances between hospital stays.
Late one evening we received a call from Ty’s dad. “Ty’s pretty sick. I think it would help him if Weslon could visit him at the hospital tomorrow. He’s blind and paralyzed from the waist down.”
After the phone call, Weslon disappeared into his room. He came out a little later, green eyes glittering with tears, and said, “I said a prayer for Ty.”
The next morning we visited the hospital bearing gifts bought with Weslon’s savings. Ty greeted Weslon with a cheery, “Hi buddy! How are ya doing? I can’t see anything but shadows where you are,” he told us.
“We brought you a few things, Ty,” I told him, trying not to let him hear the fear in my voice.
“Thanks a lot,” Ty said, his dark eyes looking our way but not focusing. During our visit my words were cheerful, but my heart felt bruised as I watched the two buddies talking.
We were amazed when the hospital released Ty a few days later. He went home with his eyesight and with the feeling in his legs gradually returning. Soon he was back in school.
Our family spent a lot of time with Ty through the next few months. Laughter and camaraderie warmed our home during Ty’s visits. He would talk with Weslon about lots of things, always reinforcing his slogan, “Stay close to the Lord.”
Soon after Christmas, Ty was flown to Phoenix for hospitalization. While he was there, he went into a coma. Just when we decided we should take Weslon on the long trip to Phoenix because the doctors didn’t expect Ty to live, we got a call. Ty had come out of the coma!
Following his release from the hospital, Ty’s parents took him to a specialist in California. After many tests the doctors ruled out multiple sclerosis. Numerous additional tests found Ty to be suffering from a virus that attacked the nervous system during times of stress or exhaustion. We were jubilantly relieved! He was still a sick young man, but now he knew how to avoid the debilitating attacks, and best of all a fatal forecast had been removed.
In spite of his many absences from school, Ty was well enough to graduate with his classmates in May. During the summer Ty held down a job and practiced for the Arizona state high school all-star game. He was one of four chosen from our region. Weslon was invited to practices, and we made the long trip to Prescott, Arizona, for the all-star game. Ty was down to 122 pounds after his illness. He was the smallest in weight on both teams, but his famous catches helped bring his team to victory.
After the game, he came jogging off the field, sweat streaming but beaming that wide, white smile. Ty got his buddy by the shoulders and they chatted about the game as I took pictures. He told Weslon, “Stay right here. I have to go get something.” A little later he came dashing back. In his hand was his all-star cap. He told Weslon, “I want you to have this. Thank you for coming to my game, buddy.”
Ty has been an inspiration to many. He was awarded the first “Ty Workman Award” at Round Valley High School. This award is presented each year now to a student conquering adversity.
December 1987 came and with it Ty’s call to the North Carolina Charlotte Mission. I took six tissues to Ty’s farewell service. In his talk he mentioned, “I have a little friend here that is really special to me. He is Weslon Whiting.” I should have taken 16 tissues!
Ty has filled an honorable mission. He continued to remember his little buddy, writing letters in the same spirit as he used to talk to Weslon. Instead of thinking of the joy he has brought to a small boy he turns it around. One sentence will ring in my mind for a long time. “Weslon, you’ve been a big help in my life, more than you’ll ever know.” With each letter he sent to his little buddy he enclosed a dime or a quarter for Weslon’s missionary fund.
Three years have passed since Ty was not expected to live. I thank this exceptional young man for giving me faith in a younger generation. And I thank him for providing my young son with a shining example of a true hero.

“Should we turn back or move ahead?” This was the question that dominated the thoughts of the pioneer company on the night of 3 December 1879. Church President John Taylor had called this group of pioneers to settle the San Juan Mission, in the southeastern part of what is now the state of Utah. But at this point in the trek, there seemed to be no clear answer on how to proceed.
The pioneers were camped at 40-Mile Spring, located on a high plateau. Silas S. Smith, the president of the company, realized how serious their situation was. Camped in some 80 wagons were nearly 250 men, women, and children. Hundreds of cattle were also part of the caravan. Winter was upon them, and they had too few supplies and other resources to remain at this encampment until spring.
President Smith sat in his tent and deliberated with other leaders. Turning back seemed impossible. Behind them, to the west, heavy snows had buried the road through the Escalante Mountains, as well as any foliage the livestock could eat. Besides, the pioneers took seriously the calling President Taylor had given them to settle the San Juan Mission, which was part of President Brigham Young’s original plan to establish settlements throughout much of the West. Who among them would refuse such a call?
Ahead of the pioneers, to the east, lay more than 300 kilometers of rough terrain with no road and little water. A decision to go forward would force them to travel through Hole-in-the-Rock—a crevice in the west wall of Glen Canyon at a high plateau above the Colorado River. It was a dangerous shortcut, but the only other trail was more than 600 kilometers long. An exploring party’s report had been pessimistic. Going through Hole-in-the-Rock would mean taking wagons and cattle on a trail that dropped 610 meters, one-third of that drop at a 45-degree angle.
Most felt it was impossible. After much discussion, one of the men made the motion to leave the decision to “President Smith and the Lord.” A unanimous vote reflected the faith of those present that the Lord would inspire their leader.
The next morning, President Smith called a meeting to announce the decision to move ahead. “The miracle of this decision went through the company like an electric shock,” wrote Kumen Jones, a member of the group, “and all was good cheer and hustle.” In the meeting, many bore testimony in support of moving ahead. Someone began to sing. Others joined in, and soon the chilly December air rang with “The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!” (Hymns, 1985, number 2).