Gospel Story Finder

Years ago there came to my office a young woman and her aging father. She had brought him several hundred miles to find a remedy for the guilt he felt. As a young man he had made a serious mistake, and in his old age the memory came back to him. He could not shake the feeling of guilt. He could not go back and undo the problem of his youth on his own, but he could start where he was and, with help, erase the guilt which had followed him all those years.
I was grateful that by teaching him principles from the Book of Mormon, it was as though a tremendous weight was lifted from his shoulders. When he and his daughter drove back home those many miles, the old man had left behind the guilt of the past transgression.

The rooms that April morning had been beautifully decorated with flowers and potted plants, for it was President Snow’s eighty-seventh birthday. On the mantle of the northeast parlor stood a gorgeous bouquet of American beauty roses. Early that morning, before the president was up, there had come a knock at the door of the Beehive House. When it was opened, there stood two little girls almost hidden behind armloads of stunning red roses. They explained that the flowers were for President Snow.
With radiant faces, the children were conducted directly to the prophet’s bedroom. There they sang two or three songs. President Snow was deeply touched by the serenade and said he would cherish the memory all of his life.

As young adults, you are at an excellent stage of life to cultivate a love of service. You are energetic and healthy, able to appreciate hard work; you are creative and industrious, able to see what needs to be done and capable of finding ways to make it happen. Do not believe anyone who tells you this should be a selfish time of your life! Instead, seek out ways to help others on campus, in our community, and around the world.

When I had been home from my mission only a month, I started dating Margaret. One day, soon thereafter, my mother wasn't feeling well. She asked me if I could fulfill her assignment at Welfare Square and can peaches with the Relief Society sisters. I was happy to do it, and while I've never done any canning since, I enjoyed that opportunity. That evening, I was surprised to realize the impact it had on Margaret when I was late for our date. She was not unhappy with me, as I had feared; on the contrary, she was impressed by the reason for my tardiness. This experience served as a great foundation for us to begin building a service-based eternal relationship together.

As I was growing up, it was a regular event for my family to drive between Northern California and Utah, USA. It wasn’t the journey through the desert we enjoyed; it was the arrival at the destination and the joy of visits with family members there.
The summer before I left for my full-time mission, I traveled once again to visit relatives in Utah. But this time my younger brother David and I traveled alone. We were 16 and 18 at the time. We had made the 10-hour journey often enough with our family that we had high confidence in our ability to travel well.
We visited our Uncle Kay, Aunt Dianne, and cousin Michelle. Then, while David extended his visit, I had to return to California on my own for a dental appointment.
Nightfall was approaching when I left Spanish Fork, Utah, to begin an overnight drive. Everything went well in the beginning. I soon left the highway that goes south and north and took the one that goes east and west. I turned on my headlights and hurried across western Utah. As the miles passed and the desert night became darker and darker, I noticed that I was having more and more difficulty seeing the road. Finally, I realized my headlights were becoming increasingly dim. They finally went out, the engine stalled, and the car rolled to a halt on the side of the interstate.
The battery was dead. The car could not go any farther. Although I had been careful to make sure I had plenty of fuel and had even noted where I would stop for gas, I was not prepared for the complete loss of electrical power.
I was raised by a father who prided himself in personally maintaining our family automobiles. He taught us about auto mechanics, so I knew that a good battery would not die while the car was running unless there was a problem with the alternator. An alternator is an electrical generator that converts mechanical energy into electrical energy. It uses the kinetic energy of the running engine to produce magnetic energy that is transformed into electric current that continually recharges the battery. This allows the headlights, radio, air conditioning, and other electrical devices to operate without interruption. It also keeps the engine running.
Now something was wrong with my car’s alternator. It needed to be repaired or replaced before my journey could continue.
In an age before cell phones, my only choice was to begin walking. Eventually, a man picked me up and drove me to the next town. At a pay phone I called for a tow truck. I sat in the cab with the driver during the one-hour trip back to the car. Then I sat with him again as we drove back to the small town with my car in tow. Finally, four hours after first leaving my car, I was back inside it, sleeping in front of a service station until it opened.
When the manager arrived, he laughed at the idea that his small town would have the part I needed. He could place an order, but it wouldn’t arrive for two or three days. Then he took pity on me. He told me he could put my battery on a charger for about three hours. That might give me enough power to drive the car to the next town. Perhaps they would have the part I needed.
With the battery charged, I set off without turning on anything that would waste precious electricity. I made it to the next town, but they didn’t have the part I needed either. This cycle continued—a three-hour charge for a two-hour drive from one town to the next. After finding kind people in towns all along the way, I finally pulled in my parents’ driveway, exhausted after a 30-hour journey but safely home.

“Today we are going to learn a new song,” Sister Reid announced. “It’s called ‘Baptism.’ Everyone close your eyes and listen to the music.”
I closed my eyes and relaxed in my chair. The pianist started playing a melody that sounded soft and graceful, like flowing water. Then Sister Reid started singing: “Jesus came to John the Baptist, in Judea long ago, and was baptized by immersion in the River Jordan’s flow.”
I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I tried to wipe it away before Mom could see, but it was too late. Mom was the Primary president, and she always saw everything. I saw Mom look at me and smile sadly. She knew why I was crying.
After church, my little sister, Julie, hummed the song the whole ride home. I stayed silent.
“Do you want to color with me?” Julie asked when we got home.
I shook my head. “Maybe later. I’ve got to do something first.”
I found Dad in the living room. He was sitting in his favorite chair with a book open on his lap. He liked to read while Julie, Mom, and I went to church.
I took a deep breath. “Dad?” I said. “Can I get baptized?”
Dad closed the book and asked me to sit by him.
“Oh, Sadie. We’ve talked about this. My answer is still no,” he said.
“But I really want to!” I said. “I turned eight a few months ago, and I’ve thought about it a lot. I know the Church is true, and the longer I wait, the more I know I want to be baptized.”
Dad shook his head. “I still think you’re too young to make such a big decision. But you know I love you.”
“I know,” I said. I knew Dad wanted what was best for me. He just didn’t think I was ready to make this choice.
I ran to my room and bowed my head. I prayed harder than I ever had before. “Heavenly Father, I really want to be baptized. Please help Dad understand.”
At first nothing happened, but I stayed on my knees. The melody of “Baptism” ran through my mind. After a while, I didn’t feel so sad. Instead, I felt peaceful inside. I started thinking about all of the things I could do, even though I couldn’t be baptized yet.
I could keep praying and keep going to Primary. I could be an example for Julie, and maybe I could even ask Mom to fast for me next week.
The peaceful feeling stayed with me as I headed down to dinner. I didn’t know when, but one day I would be baptized. And it would be worth the wait.
Six months later, two days before her ninth birthday, Sadie’s dad gave her permission to be baptized.

Joseph William Billy Johnson is one of those people. He has been a member of the Church from its beginnings in Ghana.
In 1964 an associate gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon and some Church tracts that had been sent from Europe. When he read a tract containing the testimony of Joseph Smith, he recalls, “I was inspired,” and when he read the Book of Mormon, “I knew it was true.” He began to preach the gospel truths he had learned. He wrote to Church headquarters, and President David O. McKay encouraged him to continue studying the scriptures and to be patient and faithful until missionaries could be sent to Africa.
Billy Johnson persevered for 14 years despite persecution. He built congregations to whom he taught the gospel doctrine he found in Church books. As nearly as he knew how, he tried to direct his congregations according to Church practices, yet he understood that he did not have authority to perform its ordinances.
Often he felt directed by the Spirit; he was sustained at times by visions and dreams. His son was named after Brigham Young because of a dream in which that former President of the Church offered encouragement. Brother Johnson learned about salvation for the dead after deceased relatives appeared to him in dreams and asked him to be sure they would have the opportunity to receive baptism by proxy.
“I drew inspiration from the pioneers,” he says. Reading of their struggles to build a haven in the western United States where they could worship in peace, he longed for the day when it might be possible to enjoy this same blessing in Ghana.
When Latter-day Saint missionaries arrived in 1978, after the revelation extending the priesthood to all worthy male members, hundreds of Ghanaians he had prepared were ready to be taught and baptized.
Despite the hardships he endured, Brother Johnson, now patriarch of the Cape Coast Ghana Stake, rejoices at the opportunity he had during all those years to help prepare others for the gospel. “Whenever I see in conferences the number of people who have been baptized into the Church, I start weeping for joy at the great work the Lord has done.”

Insight Number Two
In 1982 Brother Crabtree had a heart attack. Open-heart surgery followed—five bypasses! A week after he was out of the hospital he insisted that his wife drive him out to the project. When she wasn’t looking, he climbed aboard a D-8 Caterpillar tractor and took off through the trees. He was gone for forty-five frantic minutes. He returned smiling and said everything seemed to be in place.

Teddy pounded up the stairs and right past Cecil. “What’s up?” yelled Cecil as his big brother ran by. Teddy didn’t answer, so Cecil followed him into the bedroom, where Teddy was already shaking his robot bank as hard as he could. A nickel fell out, and the rattling stopped.
“Rats,” said Teddy.
“Rats, what?” asked Cecil.
“A nickel’s no good.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cecil. “I wouldn’t mind having a nickel. I’d give it to Freddy Jackson so he’d let me play with his toad. Did you know that toads don’t really give you warts?”
“I’m not interested in warts,” said Teddy. “Or toads. I’m interested in Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day? I’d rather talk about toads. Did you know—”
“Listen a minute, will you?” interrupted Teddy. “Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. We need to get a present for Mom, and all I have is a crummy nickel!” Teddy looked at his brother. “Cecil, old pal,” he said, “you’ll help me out, won’t you? After all, who’s your best friend if it isn’t your own brother?”
“Freddy Jackson,” Cecil answered promptly. “He lets me play with his toad.”
“Listen, Cecil, this isn’t for me; it’s for Mom. Maybe I’m not your best friend, but she’s a good mom, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” agreed Cecil. “She is. So what do you want?”
“Money for a present, of course,” said Teddy. “How much do you have?”
“None,” Cecil answered.
“None? What about that dollar you earned last week?”
“Gone.”
“Already? What did you do with it?”
“Ten cents for tithing and fifty cents for ice cream that I just happened to share with my big brother.” Cecil looked hard at Teddy.
“Oh, yeah,” said Teddy, scuffing his toe on the carpet. “I forgot about that. But that still leaves forty cents.”
Cecil shook his head. “Twenty-five cents for a glider. The one you accidently stepped on.”
“Oh,” said Teddy, scuffing his toe harder. “Sorry about that. But what about the last fifteen cents?”
“Three turns with Freddy Jackson’s toad,” answered Cecil. “Have you ever seen a toad catch flies? He sticks out his tongue and—”
“So all we have is a lousy nickel,” interrupted Teddy. “What can we get Mom with a nickel?”
“Well …” Cecil said. Suddenly his face brightened. “Hey! Maybe she’d like to play with Freddy Jackson’s toad.”
“You have to be joking,” said Teddy. “Now think!” He paced around the room with his face all scrunched up, thinking.
After a minute Cecil said, “Maybe we could earn some money.”
“But it’s already Saturday afternoon,” Teddy pointed out. “By the time we earn any money, the stores will all be closed. And Mother’s Day is tomorrow.”
“Maybe we could cut some flowers from the garden,” suggested Cecil.
“Oh, great,” said Teddy. “I’m sure Mom would just love a present she grew herself. You’re full of wonderful ideas, aren’t you?”
“At least I’m trying,” said Cecil. “I don’t hear much coming from you.”
Now both boys were pacing the floor.
“Hey!” Teddy yelped a couple minutes later, stopping so suddenly that Cecil ran into him. “I do have an idea! Listen.” He bent over and whispered into Cecil’s ear.
Cecil’s forehead wrinkled while he thought. Finally he smiled. “Not bad,” he said, “but we’ll have to keep it a secret. A secret Mother’s Day present.”
The next morning Cecil woke up, hopped out of bed, and jumped on top of Teddy. “Good morning!” he said loudly, right in his brother’s ear.
“Good morning, yourself,” muttered Teddy as he tried to roll over to go back to sleep. Cecil hit him with a pillow. Teddy laughed, and the boys wrestled until all the covers were on the floor. When Teddy stopped laughing enough to talk, he said, “Do you remember our secret present for Mom?”
“Yup,” said Cecil.
“This is going to be fun,” said Teddy.
“Yup,” said Cecil.
“Is ‘Yup’ all you can say?” asked Teddy.
“Yup.”
The boys washed, dressed for church, and straightened their room. They were making breakfast when Mom walked into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you boys up already? And washed and dressed and even making breakfast? What’s the occasion?”
“Why, nothing,” said Cecil, setting the table as casually as if he had done it every day of his life.
After breakfast the boys did the dishes. Then the family went to church. Teddy and Cecil sat quietly all through the meetings. Cecil didn’t even giggle when Freddy Jackson passed him a picture he had drawn of a toad that looked like Teddy.
On the way home Mom said to Dad, “Did you ever see two better-behaved boys in church?”
“Never,” agreed Dad.
Teddy and Cecil smiled at each other.
As soon as they got home, the boys changed into playclothes and put away their Sunday clothes. “Now,” said Teddy, “I’ll set the table while you help Mom in the kitchen.”
“OK,” said Cecil.
“And remember,” Teddy warned, “don’t give away our secret.”
“Who, me?” said Cecil as he ran downstairs.
During dinner, the boys were very polite. They said, “please” and “thank you” and ate all their vegetables. No one spilled anything or argued or teased. Finally Mom asked if they were feeling all right.
“Of course,” said Teddy.
“We’re fine,” said Cecil. “By the way, we’ll wash the dishes, Mom.”
“Now I know they’re sick!” Dad said with a laugh.
That evening Dad came into the family room, where Mom was reading. “I think you’d better look at something,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mom, jumping up quickly.
“Nothing, I just want you to see this. I think it’s a Mother’s Day present.”
Mom and Dad walked into the living room. In the middle of the floor was a bumpy-looking mound covered by a striped sheet with a bow on top.
“What on earth … ,” Mom began.
“I told you,” Dad said. “A Mother’s Day present.”
Just then something under the sheet squirmed.
“A squirmy Mother’s Day present,” said Mom.
Then something giggled.
“A squirmy, giggly Mother’s Day present,” said Dad.
Then something else went, “Sssh!”
“A squirmy, giggly, sssh-y Mother’s Day present,” said Mom. “This I must see.”
She pulled off the sheet. Teddy and Cecil were huddled together on the floor, grinning.
“Surprise!” they said together. “Happy Mother’s Day! We’re your Mother’s Day present,” said Teddy, “the two good boys you always want us to be. Today we did everything we could to be good and make you happy. Aren’t we a good present?”
“The best I’ve ever had,” said Mom, giving them both a hug.

I begin my account in October 1978, when President Spencer W. Kimball gave a great missionary address to the Regional Representatives of the Church. I was then a Regional Representative, and I was also president of BYU. (I pause to note that in October 1978, most of you who are now freshmen at BYU were just entering the first grade. It takes many years to accomplish the purposes of the Lord. That idea has special application to China.)

President Kimball spoke of our obligation to take the gospel to what he called “the uttermost parts of the earth” (see D&C 58:64). His message was electrifying. No one who was present will ever forget the witness they felt that this was a prophet giving the Lord’s message to the leaders and members of his restored Church.

The prophet pleaded for us to move forward, saying, “It is better for something to be underway than under advisement.” He referred to various nations where we had not yet taught the restored gospel. He singled out China for special praise, saying:

By comparison with the widespread breakdown of morality and discipline in the western world, the Chinese are a disciplined, industrious, frugal, closely knit people. Their moral standards are very high by modern western standards. . . . Family life is strong, with old family members still given great respect and care.

I quote just two more sentences from President Kimball’s great message:

When we are ready, the Lord will use us for his purposes.

There are almost three billion people now living on the earth in nations where the gospel is not now being preached. If we could only make a small beginning in every nation, soon the converts among each kindred and tongue could step forth as lights to their own people and the gospel would thus be preached in all nations before the coming of the Lord.

When I returned from that meeting I asked my assistant, Bruce L. Olsen, to begin planning for a BYU performing group to go to China. That idea was farfetched, because at that time the United States had no diplomatic relations with China, and U.S. tourists were not welcome there. But a prophet had called for beginnings, and this was a beginning BYU could attempt.

What followed seemed a miracle, even for those with the greatest faith.

Just two months later, in December 1978, President Jimmy Carter unexpectedly announced that the United States and China would exchange formal diplomatic recognition on the first day of 1979. With that announcement, a BYU trip to China became at least a theoretical possibility—if an invitation could be obtained, if our board of trustees would approve, and if we could figure out what music and dance numbers would be acceptable in that country with which we had so little experience.

Beyond all of the political and musical questions were a host of technical problems. For example, if a BYU group were invited, could they take their sound and lighting equipment, and, if so, what was the voltage of the power source in the various cities of China, and what kind of connections would be necessary to tap into it?

Miracle followed miracle. Our friends in Friendship Ambassadors, a group that fostered improved international relations through the performing arts, had close ties with officials in Romania. That nation had close relations with China. China offered to receive a tourist group sent by Romania in February 1979. Romania authorized Friendship Ambassadors to assemble the group, and they invited BYU to send representatives. By these means, Val Lindsay and Ed Blaser went to China on a trip that established our contacts with the China Travel Service, answered most of our technical questions, and gave us valuable insights into what kind of music and dance would be acceptable to Chinese audiences.

During the first few months of 1979 we began serious but confidential planning about how we could assemble a group with the varied talents that would be required for a first-class variety show. But we could only plan. We could not make any arrangements until we had a formal invitation from our Chinese hosts.

How would we obtain an invitation? As often happens when we are doing the work of the Lord and the time is right, friends were raised up to assist us. A BYU official had a friend on the island of Guam. As president of a friendship association with China, this businessman had been one of the first Westerners to visit that country. He identified the Chinese officials we should contact to seek an invitation. He also counseled us to enlist the help of prominent U.S. senators. Idaho Senator Frank Church, then chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, wrote Chinese officials on our behalf. His enthusiastic endorsement of BYU was extremely helpful.

As we kept our plans secret and waited for an invitation, our spirits were touched at the experience of a former BYU student performer. Linda Tang, a Chinese girl from Hong Kong, was working in San Francisco on an internship. As she sat at her desk one day, she had a distinct spiritual impression that she was going to return to BYU and travel to China with the Young Ambassadors. She dismissed the idea as impossible, but the impression kept returning. Several days later, she called Randy Boothe and told him about her impression. When I heard about Linda’s experience, I felt reassured that our desires would be realized. I was not surprised when she was later chosen to perform on the trip.

As I recall, it was late in March or early in April when we received a brief invitation from the China Travel Service. They invited a BYU group to come, but they gave no performance commitments or dates, and they indicated that the group would just be tourists.

Throwing caution to the winds, we went ahead on faith. By this time, all of our performing groups were committed to other summer tours. Randy Boothe assembled a group of twenty performers by depleting the Lamanite Generation and two Young Ambassador groups. They rushed into the rehearsals necessary to learn the complex choreography and music for a ninety-minute program. They also had to learn enough Chinese to do some of the songs and narration in that language.

For an account of what happened next, I quote Bruce L. Olsen, the senior university official on the tour:

Four days before the group departed, a telegram arrived from China which told us to bring only simple musical instruments.

Although the students had been restricted to one carry-on bag, and our equipment was cut to a bare minimum, we still had over 2,000 pounds of costumes and equipment. Despite the nature of the telegram, we prayerfully decided to move ahead with our plans.

Upon arrival in Canton we met our guides, who called a meeting in the International Visitors’ Lounge of the airport. I wish you could have seen that gathering. Surrounding a little round table were our tour leaders, Elder James E. Faust of the Council of the Twelve (who, along with Sister Faust, was assigned by President Kimball to accompany us), and the two guides. “Just what do you expect from us?” Miss Wong asked. I remember tightening my stomach muscles and saying, “We hope to do at least one major performance in each city.” The guides then questioned us in minute detail about the performance—they wanted to see the music, the lyrics to each song, and to know what the choreography to each number meant. As we moved through the show, Randy would call the students over to give their Chinese narrations or to sing their Chinese songs. Soon the balcony area of the airport was rimmed with Chinese watching this curious performance. At the conclusion, the guides announced that we would perform the next morning at the Peking Minorities Institute.

It was clear that this performance was a test. The performance went well, and by the end our Chinese hosts announced that we would be giving another performance in the Red Tower Theater, the most prestigious performance hall in Peking.

The next day Miss Wong took Randy aside and told him that a great deal was riding on this concert. She said, “I don’t want to alarm the students, but I am very afraid for them.” She explained that the artistic elite of Peking would be attending the concert, the symphony orchestra personnel, the ballet, the opera, and the song and dance troupe—in fact, the 1,600 seats would be filled with artistic people. She said that two years ago she was sure that our group would not have been admitted to China and that how the Young Ambassadors were received would decide whether we were invited back or whether other groups would ever be admitted. We called a special meeting to explain the gravity of the situation to the Young Ambassadors and asked them to prepare.

It was an uneasy group of students that went on stage the next night, but their faith was great and their talent and hours of practice were rewarded. The audience responded to the performance quickly. Fifteen minutes into the show people were coming backstage telling us that “The important people in the audience are pleased.” The audience “oohed” and “aahed” during dance routines and called back the clever number from the musical Shenandoah, “Next to Lovin’ I Like Fightin’ Best,” for three bows and then demanded that after intermission we start our show by doing it again.

Prior to leaving for China, we were told not to expect anything but light, polite applause, but this audience demanded four encores and not only gave a standing ovation, but also held their hands high over their heads while clapping. It was the most enthusiastic response I have seen anywhere in the world. It was obvious we had passed the test.

Things were getting more tense in Far West also. The state militia took over the city. In November 1838, many of the Church leaders were arrested and taken to prison. It was at this time that Joseph Smith and other brethren were taken to Liberty Jail, where they spent four difficult months. While they were there, the rest of the Saints got ready to leave Missouri and move to Illinois. As they prepared to leave their homes, Amanda Smith and many others were harassed by the mobs.
But the Lord was watching over them. One day Amanda had gone into a cornfield to pray. As she was leaving it, a voice spoke to her, a voice as plain as any she had ever heard. It repeated a verse from a hymn: “The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose / I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes; / That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, / I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!” (Hymns, 1985, no. 85.)
From that moment Amanda had no more fears. Like the other Saints who remained faithful and obedient, she knew that the Lord would watch over her.

When Jack tripped over his feet, he didn’t worry.
When he dropped his pencil, he didn’t worry.
But when he fell off his bunk bed, he worried. That hurt! Why was he being so clumsy?
Mom took Jack to the doctor.
“Walk down the hall while I watch,” said the doctor. Jack thought it would be easy, but he fell down. A few days later, he couldn’t use his arms very well either. The doctor discovered that Jack had a virus that made his arms and legs stop working. He would need to stay at the hospital for a while. Jack was nervous about staying overnight—especially since visitors weren’t allowed to stay.
“Would you like a blessing?” asked Dad.
Jack nodded. Dad laid his hands on Jack’s head and blessed him to get better. Jack felt peaceful during the blessing, but he still didn’t want to stay in the hospital. He wanted to sleep in the bedroom that he shared with his brother.
“Sorry, honey. The hospital says we can’t stay,” Mom said. “But we’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
Jack couldn’t get out of bed by himself. He couldn’t get a drink. He couldn’t go to the bathroom. There was no one here he knew. Jack felt scared.
After a few days, Jack got to know the nurses and doctors, so he wasn’t as afraid. But he was bored.
A few weeks later, Jack’s arms got stronger. He could push himself around in a wheelchair, so he wasn’t as bored. But he was lonely. His parents came to visit every day, and sometimes his brothers and sister pushed him around in his wheelchair too. But Jack’s family couldn’t always be with him. They lived a long way from the hospital. His dad had to work. His brothers and sister went to school. Jack wished he didn’t feel so alone.
One day a nurse smiled and said, “You have a visitor.”
In walked Jack’s bishop! “Hello, Jack! How are you doing today?”Jack grinned. He felt happy that the bishop knew his name.
“I brought you a present,” the bishop said. He gave Jack a toy and some candy.
“Thank you,” Jack said. At first he didn’t know what else to say. But soon he was telling the bishop about how he had tried to do tricks in his wheelchair. He had tipped over and couldn’t get up until a nurse came to help him. Jack didn’t try tricks in his wheelchair anymore! He also told the bishop about the books he’d read, his favorite hospital foods, and the schoolwork he’d done. Jack was grateful for someone to talk to.
When the bishop stood to leave, he said, “We miss you at church. Get well soon.”
The ward members had noticed Jack was gone, and they cared about him. Knowing that made Jack smile even after the bishop had left.
After six weeks, Jack pushed his wheelchair down the long hallway to the hospital’s front doors. He got in the car and rode home.
After a few more weeks, Jack climbed the ladder to the bunk bed all by himself. He did not slip. He fell asleep to the sound of his brother breathing quietly below.
A few weeks later, Jack made a card with the bishop’s name on it. He did not drop the pencil. He poured some candy inside the envelope and sealed it.
Jack was grateful for priesthood blessings. He was thankful for legs that could walk, arms that could climb, and hands that could write. And he was grateful for a bishop who let him know he was not alone.

Peter stared at the Pinewood Derby kit he’d received at his Cub Scout meeting. It contained a block of wood, four nails, and four wheels, from which he was to make a car to race.
Peter wasn’t too excited about the derby. Last year, he and his dad worked hard to shape, sand, and paint his car. But even though they’d tried to make a good car, it hadn’t won a single race.
He remembered his dad telling him, “Peter, you did your best, and that’s what’s important. No one wins all the time.” That had made him feel a bit better.
This year Peter faced a more difficult problem. His dad was out of town on a business trip and wouldn’t be home until after the derby. How was he going to get a car ready all by himself?
That evening, Peter’s mom said that they could work on the car together. She gathered all the tools she could find: a hacksaw, a pocketknife, a screwdriver, a hammer, and a piece of sandpaper.
First, she tried to whittle away pieces of the block with the pocketknife. “I had no idea this wood was so hard!” she said through clenched teeth as she fought to chip a piece away. With a sigh, she put down the knife. “This isn’t going to work.”
Next they tried the wobbly hacksaw. Taking turns, they managed to saw a small piece off. However, once they started shaping the wood into Peter’s design—a triangle to make it have less wind resistance—the blade snapped in half partway through.
“I suppose our last chance is to use the hammer and screwdriver to chisel away some of the wood in the direction of the cut we started,” Mom said.
Peter and his mom struggled for almost an hour. Bit by bit, pieces of the wood broke away. Then, amazingly, the car he’d hoped for began to appear. Except it was covered by strange gouges made by the screwdriver blade. And there was a blob sticking out in front. Mom suggested it might be part of the engine sticking out, like on fancy race cars they’d seen on television.
Then disaster struck. Suddenly there was a loud CRACK! A chunk of wood snapped away from the rest. Gone was the triangular shape they’d worked for. Now a deep gash appeared on the car, making it look lopsided.
“Oh, Peter!” Mom exclaimed. “Look what I’ve done!” Peter could tell by her voice that she was close to tears.
He studied the sad little shape resting on the counter and smiled. “That’s OK, Mom. You did your best. I can paint this part,” he touched the mistake, “and it will look good. I bet it’ll even make it more aerodynamic.”
Over the next two days, Peter carefully sanded his funny-looking car, trying to smooth out the gouges left by the screwdriver, but they were too deep. So he painted it. And he painted it again. Instead of trying to hide the problems, he accented them to make the whole car look more interesting.
The time came to go to the church for the derby. When he got there, all the other boys had fancy cars. Some had racing wings, and others glistened like plastic models instead of painted wood blocks.
Peter’s friends came running to see his car. He held it out proudly. “My mom helped me with this car,” he said before anyone could say anything about its odd shape. “And we did our very best!”
Soon the races started. When Peter’s name was called, he handed the Cubmaster his car.
The Cubmaster took one look at it, then held it up for all to see. “Look at this unusual car. You can tell that a lot of hard work went into making it.”
Peter glanced over at his mom and smiled. The Cubmaster was right.
As the night went on, Peter won two races, but then lost the third and was out of the running for a trophy.
After it was over, the leaders passed out the awards. Each boy got a certificate and a badge for participating. Then the Cubmaster said, “Now I’d like to present a special trophy for the most unique car in the competition. It showed great effort and creativity in its design.”
Peter looked over at the cars, wondering who would receive the trophy with the golden car on it. It looked just like the first-place trophy.
“Congratulations to Peter Olds,” the Cubmaster announced.
Peter was stunned. “Me?” he asked.
His friend nudged him. “Go on,” he urged, “go get your trophy.”
Peter walked up to the stage and accepted the trophy. He looked at everyone who was clapping and cheering for him. His mom smiled up at him.
He felt warm all over. Suddenly he realized that it was great that he had received a trophy, but the real prize was his funny little car. He didn’t need a trophy to know its value. It was special because his mom had done her very best to help him, showing him how much she loved him. He couldn’t ask for more.

"We are all privileged to belong to a wonderful family. Genealogical research has so far traced our ancestors back to the 16th century, and further research continues to push back the sands of time.
"As far as the branch of the family which belongs to the Church goes, that began a few years after the Church was organized, when a 16-year-old apprentice shoemaker in Scotland heard two Mormon missionaries. He knew from the very beginning that what he heard was the truth. He wrote to his parents and asked for permission to be baptized. They wrote back and said that if he joined the Church, he would no longer be considered a member of the family. The man he worked for told him that if he joined the Church, he could no longer work for him.
"What a difficult choice for a 16-year-old boy to make. He must have agonized over the decision. To lose everything considered of value in life—his family and a chance to earn an income.
"If he had chosen to reject the gospel, this family would not be meeting here this year, all of us members of the Church, all of us committed to upholding the standards of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
"Every person at some time in his or her life must make the same kind of decision. Each of us must decide, once and for all; we must say to ourselves, ‘This is who I am, and these are the standards I live by.’ Until we do that, we are continually tossed to and fro, not knowing what to do when we face difficult decisions.
"Archibald McKinnon made the decision to join the Church. He came to America and crossed the plains with a handcart company. In time he married a beautiful young woman in the Manti Temple, and from their union, all of us have descended."

One day while I was reading the Liahona (Spanish), I found a phrase that remained in my mind and heart: “Adversity can make you strong” (September 1993, 33). I thought about how adversity is an essential part of our Father in Heaven’s plan, but I never imagined I would later find in this phrase the strength to go forward against the challenges of life.
The town in the Argentina Buenos Aires North Mission where my companion and I were working was filled with people of other religions who viewed two boys in white shirts and ties with great distrust. We had knocked on many doors, but the results were not encouraging.
Summer days in Buenos Aires are very warm (usually around 30 degrees Celsius) and also very humid. There is little wind. We usually traveled from one place to another on bicycles. Things were already quite hot and difficult one day—our tired bodies could practically go no further—and then it began to rain. We decided to set out on foot. The mud stuck to our shoes, and walking was almost an acrobatic performance.
As a result of this adversity, we wanted to return home. Then I remembered that phrase from the Liahona and told my companion, “Come on, Elder. All this adversity is going to make us strong.” We offered a prayer, and we both felt we should look up an old referral we had never been able to find.
We arrived at the house, and once again the woman was not there. Nevertheless, another woman, Anita, was there. She spoke with us and seemed quite pleasant, so we left a copy of the Book of Mormon with her. She promised to read it. We felt great happiness in our hearts, for the Spirit had indeed led us to her.
We returned the following day, and Anita accepted all the principles we taught her. But when it was time to teach her the fourth discussion, she told us she did not want to be baptized and that it would be better if we left the house. My companion and I were very disappointed, but we knew we were going to have opposition. So we invited her to pray and ask the Lord if she should be baptized. We trusted that she would receive an answer.
We went back the next day, and Anita had indeed received her answer in an undeniable way. Her heart was filled with peace. Ten days later, she was baptized. She finished reading the Book of Mormon and found in it an inextinguishable fountain of knowledge and inspiration.
I have since learned that after one year of active membership Anita made covenants in the holy temple and that she became a source of referrals for the missionaries and a great example to the members of her community, who began to change their views of the Church.
Today I value all the opposition my companion and I had because that was how we found the strength to serve the Lord in the best way we could. Even now that I have returned to my home in Chile, I do not become discouraged with the problems that arise in life because I know adversity will strengthen me.

Stan Chidester sits in the front room looking at walls covered with his younger brother’s paintings. There are impressionistic watercolors, dramatic abstracts, and intricately executed montages. He looks at the walls, then at his brother sitting calmly in his wheelchair, and says, “Well, he’s 23 and has been into art most of his life. The past few years he’s started to get good. Maybe by the time he’s 24 …” He purposely lets the rest of the sentence trail away.
Brad, the artist, listens to his brother’s humorous critique with a half-smile on his face. Obviously, they know each other very well.
Stan goes on, “I’m his worst critic.” But later the older brother reveals that he has known for a long time how talented his brother truly is. “I have one of the paintings Brad did a long time ago. I was looking at it the other day. I think it’s still my favorite.”
Brad Chidester of Sandy, Utah, has been confined to a wheelchair most of his life with muscular dystrophy. As a child he was the Utah state muscular dystrophy poster child. His artistic abilities were apparent from an early age. Like many little boys, he loved trucks. He was always doodling and vehicles with wheels were his favorite subjects.
His love of drawing has given him a chance to cheer others and has helped him gain some interesting friends as well. When Brad was 11, he was watching a car race on television. He was stunned to see a car crash and burn in the pits. One of the men severely injured was Derrick Walker, the manager of a racing team.
“I drew a race car and sent it to him in the hospital as a get-well card. After that, he sent me a thank-you letter. We’ve been friends ever since,” says Brad. That simple correspondence has blossomed into a special relationship. Since then, Walker and Roger Penske, another racing friend, have flown Brad and a guest to major races each year. Brad’s thoughtfulness as a young boy proved that caring and concern are not limited to the physically able.
In high school, one of Brad’s art teachers introduced him to watercolors. That turned out to be Brad’s medium. “I loved it and just stayed with it,” said Brad. “Then one of the secretaries bought one of my landscapes. That got me really excited. I saw I could do something that could earn a little money.”
Brad went on to be named the Sterling Scholar for Utah (a program for outstanding scholastic achievement) in visual arts. He studied graphic arts and began to have his work accepted for showing in galleries. Although he is still a struggling artist, the demand for his work is growing.
To keep track of ideas and things that interest him, Brad and his family take a camera wherever they go. He has someone take a picture of whatever catches his artistic eye. He has also expanded his style. For a long time, he drew realistically. Over the years, he has branched out. “I always thought anybody could do abstract art,” says Brad. “When you get into it, you realize how hard it is. Now it’s one of my favorite things to do.”
Brad is cared for and supported by his three older brothers and his father. His mother died two years ago. Although he appreciates all his family does for him, when asked what one thing he would change about his life, Brad says, “I’d like to be more independent.” Not an unusual sentiment for someone Brad’s age no matter what their physical condition. Another step Brad is taking for himself is preparing to go to the temple.
Although Brad is a talented artist, he suffers his share of rejection. “I’ve had a lot of rejection letters from galleries,” says Brad. “But you can’t let that bother you. You have to keep going.” It’s obvious that Brad has discovered the secret to developing one’s God-given talents. He says, “If you’re really into something, pursue it to the fullest extent.” For a young man whose physical limitations would give him plenty of excuses not to try, he has taken his own advice. He is a true artist.
Brad remembers his high school days and the things people did for him that helped and the things that hurt. Here are a few of Brad’s suggestions if you meet someone with a handicap.
“Some kids seemed afraid they would hurt my feelings, so they would just avoid me. I liked it when someone tried to get to know me.”
“Some people feel sorry for me and try too hard to be nice. I prefer it when they treat me like a regular person. Don’t be afraid; yet don’t go overboard.”
“It bothers me when kids are asking me questions and their parents shush them. Little kids are great.”
“The best way is when people talk with me. That’s the best way to learn how to act around someone with a handicap. Ask them.”

I remember vividly, even today, a scene I witnessed nearly 20 years ago in the foyer of the church where I was the bishop. In those days we had a large group of young adults in the ward. This was before our resident stakes had single-adult wards. It was a Sunday before sacrament meeting. A dozen or so of our young adults were gathered in the foyer visiting about an outing they had scheduled for the following week. Their enthusiasm for the event was evident from the animated way they were talking about their plans. Everyone was deeply involved in the discussion. Then a young woman, about the age of those in the group, came rather timidly into the foyer. Although a member of the ward, she was not a regular attender—in fact, she rarely came. She was not blessed with gifts and graces that made her fit easily anywhere. Most of the time she seemed hostile and unpleasant. Although she was known to the group, she had no friends. She lived a lifestyle that was different and, in many respects, contrary to the commandments. And everyone knew it—or thought they knew it. Then it happened. One of the young men, who was a natural and charismatic leader, saw her come in. He excused himself from the group, walked over to the young lady, put an arm around her, and exclaimed how glad he was to see her. Would she sit with him in the meeting, and would she go with the group on their exciting excursion that week? She replied yes, and yes. A new friendship was begun. It would have been easy—even natural—for him to ignore her or to offer only a polite nod or hello. But he did what all of us should do. He extended himself to her in an offering of friendship.

The snows stayed late in the highlands that spring and gave Jamie great cause to worry. Fiona, his very own ewe, would probably need help with the birthing of her first lamb. What would happen if she stayed too long in the highlands and became trapped by the sudden fury of a late storm? She and her lamb might die.
“Grandfather,” Jamie began over breakfast, “I’ll carry feed to the sheep today. There’s time before school this morning.”
Grandfather poured milk onto his porridge. “We’ll not be carrying feed up the hill any more this spring,” he said. “There’s work to do below—the fields must be readied for sowing.”
“But, Grandfather, the sheep could go hungry, especially …”
“Especially those heavy with lambs,” Grandfather finished. He wiped his gray mustache with a thick cloth. “I know that’s what you’re thinkin’, lad. But they’ve only to scratch through the snow and find spring timothy grass for food now. It’s in their nature to know these things.”
“But Fiona …”
“Jamie, if she gets caught in the hills when her time comes, she’ll take shelter and give birth the way it’s always been done. When you’ve learned more about crofting (farming), you’ll find that it’s hard, hard work. There’s no room for soft feelings for just one sheep.”
Jamie opened his mouth to speak again but stopped at Grandfather’s look. His eyes were the shivery blue of a November sunrise, his face a craggy reminder of Aberdeen’s moors. Jamie could not speak again, not in the face of Grandfather’s wintry look.
Had Grandfather never felt the warmth of the work he was doing? Would he, Jamie, lose the tender feelings he now held for all the living, breathing things on the croft? Would he, one day, become like Grandfather? Once, he wanted to be just like him. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Take up your books now, lad,” Grandfather said. “I’ll take up my plow.”
Jamie hurried through the soft fields that were waiting for the seeds of oats and barley. They were the staple of life for those on this land. Without them Grandfather could not keep his croft. So Jamie knew that the planting must be done on time and that the sheep must look after themselves.
But Fiona … Fiona was different. Jamie knew that too. He paused and looked to the low hills beyond the meadows. This summer they would be covered with the lavender glow of wild heather, but now they were dull with patches of spiny gorse (a shrub) and dirty snow. Fiona was up there somewhere, waiting.
At school, Jamie’s books lay open to the thoughts of Robbie Burns and the deeds of past Highlanders. But his mind stayed with Fiona and with remembrances of past lambing snows. It was during the lambing snows two years ago when he’d first seen her trembling legs take a step towards him and he’d touched her still-damp wool. Her mother had died with milk sickness, so Jamie had bottle-fed Fiona until she could join the other spring lambs dancing in the fields.
But she always remembered him and waited for his visit. Then she cavorted around and around on sturdy legs as they traveled the craggy paths together. And she still hurried over to him when he managed to find chores to take him her way.
The day was as gray as slabs of cold porridge when school ended. Jamie hurried along the pathways, eager to be home. Despite Grandfather’s words, surely he would give Jamie time to carry a basket of feed to Fiona. Surely there would be time for that much.
But the milking had to be done, the hens fed, and the fires tended in the cooking stove. And then it was dark and a cold wind blew. Before they’d finished supper, rain clawed at the windows with sharp, scraping sounds.
Sometime in the night Jamie awoke to a great silence. The storm had moved up to the highlands, and he knew that when he looked in the morning, he would see new scarves of snow tossed over the hills. Fiona was up there, waiting for him to come.
At first light Jamie dressed in his thickest woollies and set out for the feed shed. He filled a basket with grazing supplements and began the long walk to the hills. As he climbed, he burrowed deeper into his mackintosh and hood, glad for the Wellingtons that kept his feet warm and dry.
Soon he saw the sheep lying in the snow in soft, lumpy clutches. Fiona was not among them.
“Fiona,” Jamie called.
The wind carried his voice away from the hills toward Grandfather’s house below, where a light now shone in the kitchen window. Jamie hurried on, his heart cold with what he might find. He called again: “Fiona.”
He stopped where the snow drifted against the stone fence. Should he follow the fence line or climb over it? Every moment counted. Decide quickly, he told himself.
Fiona, in her heaviness, could not climb over the fence, he knew, so she would stay on this side. But which way had she gone? There were no prints in the snow, nothing to show that she’d ever been here. There were only the drifts, as smooth as the icing on the tea cakes in Mrs. MacCrae’s bakeshop window—except for that one small place where the snow mounded in a small, round hump.
“Fiona!” He ran, dropped on his knees, and pawed away the snow until he found her lying still and quiet. Was there breath left in her? There’d not be much air under the snow.
Then he saw and understood. Her small muzzle was tucked into a crack between the stones in the fence. There she’d found air to keep her alive.
She pulled her soft, woolly face away from the fence, and something stirred against her. Jamie saw then that her lamb had only just come, looking as trembly and damp as Fiona had when she’d been born in the lambing snows. Bent beneath the lamb were tender shoots of timothy grass. Air and food. Fiona had known just what to do after all.
Jamie looked up to see Grandfather standing next to him. “You were right, Grandfather. She doesn’t need me any more.”
“But I do,” Grandfather said, “to remind me about the way of crofting that I’d almost forgotten.” His eyes had lost their shivery blueness and were warm and caring.
Grandfather carried Fiona, and Jamie carried her lamb down to the warmth of the house below.

President Díaz truly understands those difficulties. Baptized at age 17, he was the only member of his family to join the Church. “What got me through was my branch president,” he explains. “He spent hours with me; he always had time for me.” That important contact helped young Jacinto Díaz decide to serve a mission. He left despite the opposition of his parents. By the time he returned two years later, his mother and 11 other family members had joined the Church.

I experienced this myself several months ago when I lost my favorite set of scriptures. I'd just spent the last year or two marking this set of scriptures, so I was distraught. Each day I prayed earnestly that the Lord would help me find these scriptures, but to no avail. I soon became frustrated--not with the Lord, but with myself. Surely the Lord knew where my scriptures were, and they couldn't be far. Why was I so spiritually dense that I couldn't learn where they were? But after about three weeks, one morning I felt prompted to change my prayer. Instead of praying that I would find my scriptures, I asked the Lord to guide someone who might be closer to my scriptures to find them. Sure enough, that very night I got a call from a counselor in a bishopric in our stake. He'd been looking for some scriptures to read between meetings, so he wandered into the clerk's office, where he found my scriptures.

Permit me to give just a personal reference to this principle. Back in the 1940s, my younger brother received a mission call to New England, and (without running through all the details which really don’t matter), he was sent to a little community in Nova Scotia called Kentville. There he labored for most of his mission. As some elders and missionaries do, he came home seemingly a failure if you count the number of people he baptized. You are familiar with the situation of elder brothers teasing their younger brothers when what they do has little or no results. I constantly reminded him of how unproductive his mission was. Twenty years later, almost to the day, I, his older brother, was called to preside over the same mission. In my first district conference at Halifax, Nova Scotia, a little lady came up to me after the first session. She said, “Elder Dunn, Elder Dunn, do you have a brother by the name of David?”
And I said, “I believe I do.”
And she said, “Was he on a mission in New England?”
I said, “He was.”
And then (missionaries will appreciate this) she opened her purse and shuffled through all her pictures. She lifted one out and said, “Is that he?”
I said, “Twenty years ago, that was he.”
“Oh,” she said, “where is he?”
I said, “He’s in southern California.”
“Oh, I’d like to communicate with him. He’s responsible for bringing me into the Church.”
I said, “No, ma’am, you’re mistaken. My brother didn’t bring anybody into the Church.”
“Oh,” she said, “I hate to correct you, sir, but—.” Then she called six other people over, all with great families, who happened to be the backbone of the district at Halifax. And she said, “All of these are because of your brother. We thank God for him.”
Out of small things great things shall proceed.