Gospel Story Finder

Just about everybody says, “Don’t go visit Mrs. Brocklebank, or you’ll get chased out of her yard with a broom.” Well, that’s fine for everybody else to say, but not so fine for me, because Mrs. Brocklebank is my grandmother!
She lives down the street in a little house that’s surrounded by trees. My family visits her every Sunday afternoon, and I usually hide behind my dad and try not to say anything, except when she speaks to me, and even then I hardly dare raise my voice above a whisper. It’s not that I don’t like her. I don’t know her well enough to not like her. The real problem is that I’m too afraid of her to know her.
Mrs. Brocklebank came to Alberta, Canada, from Germany many years ago. She was already pretty old, Mom told me, when she met Mr. Brocklebank and got married and had my father. Grandfather Brocklebank died when Dad was still young, and my grandmother had to raise him all by herself. Maybe that’s why she’s so feisty.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I’m in a real fix. Last week in Primary Sister Little told us that by next Sunday we have to bring our completed four-generation program to class. My family have only been Latter-day Saints for three months, so I didn’t know what she meant by “four-generation program.” When she explained it to me, I was dumbfounded. After church I took the problem up with my parents.
“Oh yes,” said Dad. “They explained the program in priesthood meeting last week.”
“I’ve heard about it, too,” Mom said. “It’s something that I was planning for us to start on in a family home evening next month.”
“But I have to have it next week!”
“Well, that’s no problem,” Dad said. “Mother has all that stuff.”
“Mother?” I said, looking at Mom.
“No, no. Not your mother—my mother.”
“You mean Mrs. Brocklebank?”
“Grandmother Brocklebank,” Mom said.
“That’s who I mean,” Dad said.
The situation was turning into an insurmountable problem. Mrs. Brocklebank had started to take the discussions with the rest of us, but she had quit before finishing them. She had argued with everything that the missionaries had said. I could tell that I was licked even before I started.
Later, when we went to visit Mrs. Brocklebank, I sat quietly in a corner and looked at the floor. Finally Dad pushed me forward and said, “Mother, Kenneth has something to ask you.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Brocklebank’s eyes fixed on me like two steel drills.
“Mrs. Brock—Grandmother,” I began, clearing my throat and staring at her long nose and thin lips, “I need some family history information.”
“Family history information? Whatever for?”
I told her about the four-generation program—how it included me, Mom and Dad, her and Mr. Brocklebank, and their parents, and how if we went to the temple and got the work done, we could be together forever.
“Together forever? What makes you think that I want to be together with anyone forever?”
“Come now, Mother,” said Dad. “You’re just being difficult.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brocklebank, folding her arms and pinching her lips together, “that’s what I’m best at!”
I took the blank Family Group Record Sheets out of my pocket. They were kind of wadded up and wrinkled, but I straightened them out with my hand. When Mrs. Brocklebank wasn’t looking, I left them on the dining room table by a vase of red carnations.
The next Sunday came fast, and I wasn’t ready for it. I had said several prayers that week about the four-generation program, but I didn’t have much hope that Mrs. Brocklebank would help me. I figured that Heavenly Father must get pretty tired of people asking for things all the time, so mostly I just thanked Him for things. I thanked Him for Mom and Dad and my best friend, Peter, and for my Primary teacher, Sister Little. Sometimes I even thanked Him for Mrs. Brocklebank.
I got up Sunday morning and put on my suit. I always have trouble with my tie, so I went to see Dad. While he was tying it, he said, “Mother called and wants you to go over to her house on your way to church.”
I pleaded with him to go with me, but he said that he had to be at priesthood meeting early.
My knees were shaking and my heart was pounding as I knocked on Mrs. Brocklebank’s front door. She stood behind the screen, looking down at me. “Come in,” she said.
I went in. The house was quiet, and I could hear her electric clock making a little whirring sound. I stood still with my arms at my side.
“I have something for you,” Mrs. Brocklebank said. She went over to her dining room table and came back with the Family Group Record Sheets.
They were folded—not all crooked, like when I fold papers, but neat and straight. I opened them up. Every space was filled in with a name, even mine. Every name had places and dates written next to them. Mrs. Brocklebank had completed my four-generation program! I opened my mouth to thank her.
“Take it and go before you’re late for church,” she said gruffly. “And don’t say anything. I dislike people who snivel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And come back later. I want to hear more about being together forever. But don’t get any ideas about me being interested in the Church. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
I looked back at Mrs. Brocklebank. She was frowning and trying to look annoyed, but I suddenly realized that she wasn’t, not really. I smiled right at her. “I understand, Grandma Brocklebank,” I said.
(To be concluded.)

Last year, Lisa dislocated her shoulder and missed a chance to go to the Blue Star Basketball Camp to be seen by college recruiters. She was disappointed, but she didn’t give up. “I knew that I’d kept my body clean and strong and that it would heal fast.” She came back playing even stronger.
Lisa’s coach, John Schneiter, says, “In my 35 years of coaching, I’ve never seen a harder working athlete.”

On Christmas Eve several years ago, the Kim family, who were members of our ward, stopped by our home to give us a gift. They are from Korea, and they are incredibly talented. Sister Kim is a pianist, Brother Kim plays the flute, and each of their children play a stringed instrument. They are all accomplished musicians.

That Christmas Eve they entered our home with their instruments in tow—with the exception of Sister Kim, who used our piano. Their gift to us was a musical performance of Christmas carols in our living room. Words cannot adequately express how beautiful and heavenly it was. I have to admit that I was a little sad when they concluded their performance. Imagine my joy when the following Christmas Eve, the Kim family stopped by our home to perform again!

This time, however, when they were packing up their instruments to leave, Brother Kim informed us that they would return the following Christmas Eve to perform, but they expected us to be prepared to perform something for them. Of course we wanted them to return, so we agreed.

After they left our home, Kevin and I quickly assessed our situation. We had one year to come up with something very special that we could perform for the Kim family, and we knew that, in reality, we really needed much longer than a year! After some thought, however, Kevin and I decided that we could sing a Christmas carol for them in Korean. We chose “Silent Night” because it was one song I thought I could play on the piano while everyone else sang. Then we asked a friend who had served his mission in Korea to write out the Korean words for “Silent Night” phonetically so that we would at least have a chance of pronouncing the Korean words correctly.

When the next Christmas Eve arrived, our little choir—which consisted of our family and friends who were at our home that night—practiced the song a few times before the Kims arrived. We were as prepared as we could be for our performance. The Kims arrived, and after we had waited a whole year, it was finally time for us to perform for them.

I sat down nervously at the piano and began playing, and our choir began singing “Silent Night” in Korean. We managed to get through the first line of the song just fine. The Kims sat and listened politely. Then we made it through the second line just fine too. The Kims sat with pleasant looks on their faces. I knew that we were on the home stretch, and I was feeling pretty good about our performance. And that is when it ­happened—the part of “Silent Night” that goes “sleep in heavenly peace” (Hymns, 2002, no. 204). Well, as soon as the choir sang the word sleep, every member of the Kim family—who had been sitting there watching and listening to us very quietly, respectfully, and graciously—burst out in delightful glee. It was at that moment the Kim family realized we were singing in Korean. Evidently, prior to that moment they had had no idea what language we were attempting to sing.

There are people we know who have gifts and talents that are very obvious—like the Kim ­family—and others, like us, whose gifts and talents may not be so obvious. For example, we obviously had neither the gift of music nor the gift of tongues, but we still had the gift to appreciate the music and the talents of others.

Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.

As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.

When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).

This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.

Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.

These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

“We have a distant relative in Warsaw and so we informed him of the choir’s coming,” said Charlene VanWagenen Gale. “After the concert, with a picture of him in hand, I looked for him until I found him. At his home that evening, we talked of the gospel—modern revelation, the Restoration, the Word of Wisdom. On occasion, tears would stream down his wife’s face. After we discussed Apostles and prophets, in the midst of our conversation, he asked, ‘Are you an Apostle?’ ‘No, I’m a disciple,’ I said, and explained the difference. ‘But you speak with such conviction,’ he said. ‘I only speak what I know,’ I replied. He said, ‘I want to know why I feel the way I feel when you speak.’ I talked to him about the Holy Ghost and then asked him, ‘Would you like to visit the missionaries to learn more?’ The answer was yes.”

Last summer I climbed a mountain. A group of friends and I started at 1:00 a.m. at the base, with the goal of reaching the summit to watch the sunrise. The first four hours were miserable. We walked in the dark, plodding onward, one foot in front of the other. It was too dark to see the top of the mountain outline, our goal, so I kept my head down, using my headlamp to light the way.

As I climbed the mountain last summer, I experienced a gradual change. As the sun came up, my mood lifted. I could see more clearly; I felt more purpose as my goal came into view. When the sunlight finally fell directly on me, I felt like a changed person. The warmth reinvigorated me, and I found myself happy, talkative, joyful, and full of energy.

In a similar manner, dwelling on questions in the dark can sap our gospel energy. During the first half of the hike, I felt hopeless and exhausted. It seemed like I would never reach my goal. When I was walking in the light, I felt energized and optimistic, even though I still had a long way to walk. Choosing to search for answers while coming closer to Jesus Christ and moving into His light can fill us with His Spirit and help us remain hopeful as we move toward further understanding.

Otavalo, a beautiful city in northeastern Ecuador, is even more beautiful in my memory because of an experience I had there while serving in the Ecuador Quito Mission. One afternoon in September 1996 my companion and I were walking to a teaching appointment. Suddenly, some children ran out of a small, humble house, crying, “A blessing! A blessing! Give us a blessing!”
We were astonished and didn’t know what to think. We considered ignoring them and continuing on, but something prompted us to find out what was happening. We feared something terrible had taken place.
The children quickly ran back inside the house. We followed them and found a lady who was as surprised to see us as we were surprised to see her. We explained what had happened, and smiling, she told us, “The children were just playing.” We talked for a few minutes, took her name as a referral, then left.
Two days later we returned and discovered she was a member of the Church. She hadn’t gone to church for a long time, she said, mostly because she hadn’t felt anyone had encouraged her. Her children were not members of the Church. We sensed that she wanted the gospel of Jesus Christ to be part of her and her children’s lives.
We shared the message of the gospel with her children, and they were baptized two weeks later. At the baptismal service, one of the children began to cry with joy. He said his mother had changed, and he was very happy the Lord had sent the missionaries to their house.
Little did those children know that when they so playfully asked for a blessing, the Lord would answer them—in abundance. Today, the family continues to be strong and faithful in the Church.

I’ve loved to dance since I was three. So when I was in middle school, I was excited when tryouts for the dance team came around. I had no doubt that with my talent and experience, I would easily make the team.
A few days after the tryouts, the names of the dance team were posted. To my dismay, I couldn’t find my name anywhere on the list. I was devastated. I went home and cried on my bed. I was mad at the dance teacher and disappointed that I had not been good enough to make the team. My mom quietly walked into my room and suggested that I ask Heavenly Father for the strength to make it through this “bump” in my life. I reluctantly agreed and said a short prayer. After the prayer I didn’t feel any better, so I continued moping around and being miserable. I slept terribly that night.
The next morning I pulled myself out of bed. The memory of my failure was fresh in my mind, and I wanted to just slip right back under the covers. But before I did, I remembered a promise my bishop had made. He said that if I would read my scriptures every day, even if only for 15 minutes, then I would be blessed. If I ever needed a blessing, it was now.
As I read, I discovered this verse in the Doctrine and Covenants:
“I say unto you my friends, fear not, let your hearts be comforted; yea, rejoice evermore, and in everything give thanks;
“Waiting patiently on the Lord, for your prayers have entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth, and are recorded with this seal and testament—the Lord hath sworn and decreed that they shall be granted.
“Therefore, he giveth this promise unto you, with an immutable covenant that they shall be fulfilled; and all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord” (Doctrine and Covenants 98:1–3).
I was shocked. I sat in my pajamas with my messy bed-hair and marveled at how much I had needed these scriptures. All the feelings of anger and sadness washed away in those three verses. I felt the love of my Heavenly Father and knew that He knew what I was going through. With this new perspective, I could see that not being chosen for the dance team really was just a small bump in the road of my life. I fell to my knees in gratitude and thanked Heavenly Father.
For the rest of the day, I was able to keep the Spirit with me and look at my trials as opportunities for growth. I will always hold these verses close to my heart. And I will remember my bishop’s promise about the blessings of turning to the scriptures. I am very grateful I can be a part of this Church and have a knowledge of the gospel. I know that Heavenly Father’s plan for us is truly a plan of happiness.

In closing, let me share a special experience that Sister Ballard and I had in connection with the announcement of the new PBS television presentation American Prophet: The Story of Joseph Smith. We were assigned to meet with the Vermont PBS leaders and others in Sharon, Vermont, the birthplace of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Time allowed us to visit the homestead of Joseph Smith, Sr., and Lucy Mack Smith in Tunbridge. Researchers have now found the location of the humble cabin in which my mother’s great-grandfather Hyrum Smith was born. His brothers Alvin and Samuel and his sister Sophronia were also born in Tunbridge. Can you sense the profound feelings of humility and wonder that came into my heart as I stood at this special site? Two hundred years ago, on February 9, 1800, Hyrum came into this world, destined to become one of the most important and magnificent leaders of the restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. From very humble beginnings came the leadership power of Joseph, Hyrum, and many others.

In contrast to that experience, on the ­seventh of this month, with several of the Brethren, I toured the magnificent new conference center, where 21,000 people will gather in April to attend general conference. From the humble beginnings in Vermont to the great conference center in Salt Lake City, tremendous progress has been made. We must never forget the price paid by the courageous, faithful leaders who had testimonies deeply rooted in the doctrine. They faithfully accepted the challenges of leadership. Our appreciation for their service is best shown by you and me in our willingness to prepare to do our part now and in the future.

When Newel Knight informed his wife, Lydia, that the Saints would have to leave Nauvoo and move yet again, she responded with tenacious faith, saying, “Well, there’s nothing to discuss. Our place is with the Kingdom of God. Let us at once set about making preparations to leave.” Brother Knight had moved his family several times already as many of the Saints had moved from New York to Ohio to Missouri and to Illinois. Lydia Knight’s devoted submission to what she knew was God’s will typifies powerfully the faith of those heroic early Saints. With their faith in mind, the words of a familiar hymn take on added meaning:
Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword;
Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy
Whene’er we hear that glorious word.
Faith of our fathers, holy faith,
We will be true to thee till death!
Though winter’s chill was not yet past, heightened fears of mob attacks and swirling rumors of government intervention compelled President Young to set things in motion to get the Saints under way. He directed the first company of pioneer families to leave Nauvoo on February 4, 1846, a cold winter day. They drove their laden wagons and their livestock down Parley Street—a street that became known as the “Street of Tears”—to a landing where they were ferried across the river to Iowa. Chunks of ice floating in the river crunched against the sides of the flatboats and barges that carried the wagons across the Mississippi. A few weeks later, temperatures dropped even further and wagons could cross the river more easily over a bridge of ice.
Sister Wirthlin and I visited Nauvoo in early March this year. The weather was bitterly cold. As we stood in the chilling wind, looking out across the broad expanse of the Mississippi, we felt a deeper sense of appreciation and gratitude for those Saints as they left their beloved city. We wondered how they ever survived. What a sacrifice to leave behind so much for the uncertain future that lay ahead! No wonder so many tears were shed as the fleeing pioneers drove their wagons rumbling down Parley Street to cross the river with no hope of ever returning to their “City Beautiful.”
Once across the river, they camped temporarily at Sugar Creek before starting their trek west toward the Rocky Mountains. The journey, which historian H. H. Bancroft described as a migration without “parallel in the world’s history,” had begun.
When President Brigham Young joined the departing pioneers at their campsite in Iowa on February 15, 1846, the Lord revealed to him to begin organizing a modern “Camp of Israel.” On the first of March the advance company began its push westward across Iowa. Hardships caused by cold, snow, rain, mud, sickness, hunger, and death challenged the faith of these hardy pioneers. But they were determined to follow their leaders and to do, no matter the cost, what they believed fervently to be the will of God. Their faith was challenged, and for some it faltered in especially difficult times. But it did not fail them. Many were sustained by the assurances they had received in temple ordinances performed in the Nauvoo Temple.
One of the more difficult hardships endured by many of the sisters was delivering their babies under harsh, extreme conditions along the trail. Eliza R. Snow wrote that as the pioneers “journeyed onward, mothers gave birth to offspring under almost every variety of circumstances imaginable, except those to which they had been accustomed; some in tents, others in wagons—in rainstorms and in snowstorms.” Sister Snow went on to record in her journal that she “heard of one birth which occurred under the rude shelter of a hut, the sides of which were formed of blankets fastened to poles stuck in the ground, with a bark roof through which the rain was dripping. Kind sisters stood holding dishes to catch the water … , thus protecting the [little one] and its mother from a showerbath [on its entrance to] the stage of human life.”
What a sacrifice these good sisters made! Some mothers lost their own lives in childbirth. Many babies did not survive. My wife’s grandmother, Elizabeth Riter, was born at Winter Quarters in the back of a covered wagon during a rainstorm. Fortunately, both the mother and the newborn infant survived. With great love for the woman who gave life to her, Elizabeth often lovingly recounted how an umbrella was held over her mother throughout the ordeal to shield her from the water leaking through the wagon’s cover.
Let us never forget the faith of our fathers and the selfless sacrifice of our mothers, those pioneering Saints who set such an inspiring example of obedience. Let us remember them as we strive to be valiant servants in our work to “invite all to come unto Christ” and “be perfected in him.”

When my sister Natalie delivered her second child, I was blessed to visit her family in Wisconsin. One night, while preparing for bedtime, I was singing “I Am a Child of God”1 with my then three-year-old niece, Amanda. She looked up at me from her bed and said, “Aunt Michelle, Heavenly Father made you and He made me.” Tears welled in my eyes as I considered the pure doctrine this toddler had expressed. At a very young age Amanda understood one of the most central truths of God’s plan: “All human beings—male and female—are created in the image of God. Each is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents, and, as such, each has a divine nature and destiny.”

When our family was still young and growing, Sister Funk and I were looking for a larger home in another stake. In February of that year, we learned our bishop would be moving soon. We both received strong impressions that we should stay in our current ward, so we modified our search. In March, after returning from a vacation, we had decided to buy a new home under construction in our ward. As Sister Funk talked to the homebuilder on a Thursday morning, she learned the house we wanted had been sold while we were gone. She was very disappointed. That evening, I was called as the new bishop of our ward. The next day Sister Funk found the same model of house in a different neighborhood in our ward and we promptly bought it.

The year after we moved into our new home, our stake and ward were divided and the first house ended up in the other stake. Another year later, I was called as the stake president of the stake where we lived and served for ten years in that calling. Those opportunities may not have come if the Lord had not guided us to be where we could be of service.

The prophet has asked us to “love thy neighbor” as Jesus Christ did. My sister, Lynn, and I like to build tepees in our yard out of sticks and leaves. Our next-door neighbor likes building tepees, too. She took our sticks and said that they were hers. We argued about it.
We apologized for arguing, and she invited us into her yard. “But,” she said, “if you come into my yard, you have to promise that you will not take my sticks.” She wanted us to swear by Heavenly Father’s name. We told her we can’t do that because of our religion. We explained that we use Heavenly Father’s name reverently because we love Him.
She didn’t know what reverent means, so we told her. We promised in our own way that we wouldn’t take her sticks, and we’ve been friends ever since.

I sank into my seat for geometry just before the bell rang. That was close. I was still learning how to navigate the halls of my new high school. I pulled out my math homework and began rummaging through my backpack for a pencil.
“Psst … Sherilyn,” the guy behind me hissed.
I turned around to face Gary, a guy I had talked to only a few times since the beginning of the school year. We were in the same Spanish class later in the day, but I didn’t know him well.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you have your Spanish book with you?” he inquired.
A sinking realization hit me as I pictured my Spanish book where I had left it on my bedroom floor.
“Sorry, I don’t have it with me,” I replied. “I left it at home.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You know, I totally forgot to do the homework,” I remarked, frowning.
My Spanish teacher consistently checked to see if everyone had done the homework. “There goes another zero for me,” I thought. “Just what I need at the start of the year.”
“Do you want to copy mine?” he asked.
Copying homework was common at this school, and no one thought anything of it. You could walk down the halls and see people sprawled on the floor, blatantly copying their friends’ work. He was trying to be friendly, I’m sure, but I couldn’t do that. It would be dishonest, and I wouldn’t feel right doing it.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I wouldn’t really feel comfortable doing that,” I said.
He paused for a moment, smiled at me, and then he said something I will never forget: “I didn’t think you would. Actually, I didn’t even do mine.”
So what was he doing? Trying to test me? I was actually surprised that he would know enough about me to know I wouldn’t copy his work. It was only the second week of school, and I hadn’t known him the previous year.
“You’re Mormon, aren’t you?” he asked.
I said yes. We talked for a few minutes, and then our teacher started the class. I reflected on this incident for the rest of the day. I’d only talked to this guy a few times, yet somehow he knew that I, a new freshman in a school of more than 2,000, was a member of the Church. How?
Then I had another thought. What if I had accepted his offer? Not only would it have made me look stupid, because he hadn’t even done the homework, but how would that have affected his idea of how Mormons behave?
That experience made me sit a little taller the rest of the year. I knew he was watching me and that other people I didn’t even know were watching as well.

Rachelle Noble did not have to face the problem of playing on Sundays until she was a freshman in college. She remembers the day perfectly. She was in her first year at Columbia University in New York City. She had been recruited to be a member of Columbia’s track-and-field team, to participate in the throwing events. She had told her coach up front that she would not be participating in Sunday meets.
“I was in my room,” says Rachelle. “I had just received our media guide, and I was looking at the schedule. I saw that half of our season’s meets were going to be on Sundays. At that moment, all the stories I had heard in Primary and all the lessons I had had in Sunday School came back to me. I had talked to my parents about it. That’s when my decision became conscious. I would not be playing on Sundays.”
That’s when strange things started happening. Her first meet was switched to Saturday. Then weather caused another Sunday cancellation. Then the biggest meet was changed at the last minute. In the meets that were not rescheduled, Rachelle participated in events on Saturday but would then bow out on Sunday. Her coaches tried to persuade her to change her mind the whole year. At the end, Rachelle felt that she needed to play for a coaching staff she was more comfortable with.
Rachelle then transferred to a junior college near her hometown of Show Low, Arizona. The problem with Sunday competition went away since no junior college meets were scheduled for Sunday. But Rachelle wanted to pursue her talents at the highest levels of college competition, so she sent a highlight film and her transcript to a lot of schools, including the tough track team at UCLA. It was a long shot because the UCLA team was among the best college teams in the nation, and the UCLA throwing coach didn’t take transfer students.
Rachelle’s dream started to come true. Coach Art Venegas at UCLA called and asked her to come. Then came the hard part. Rachelle says, “He was really excited and saying all this really cool stuff, and I decided that would be the time to tell him. I told him I can’t compete on Sunday.” Even if she had to give up her dream, Rachelle couldn’t change her mind. But the coach said, “Okay, I don’t see any problem with that.”
Then the coach said something that let Rachelle know he was serious. “He said if they schedule the NCAA hammer throw, which is my best event, on Sunday, you just won’t throw it.”
Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened. The hammer throw was scheduled for Sunday in the big Pacific-10 Conference meet in Seattle. Rachelle was expected to win or place. Her performance could mean the difference in points between her team winning or losing the entire meet. An assistant coach asked her, out of curiosity, why she had made this stand. “I told him,” says Rachelle, “that even if I won on Sunday, I would have this piece of metal, but I would have gone against everything I’ve learned for the last 18 years. It made total sense to him.”
It turned out that her team didn’t need the points Rachelle might have earned. The team took first in the meet.
Rachelle feels that blessings have come from her decision. On that Sunday afternoon, after the big Pac-10 meet, Rachelle’s coach approached where she was sitting in her Sunday dress waiting for the team bus. He handed her his coaching credentials as a souvenir and said, “I want you to have this. You’ve given me the most memorable performance of this meet.”
Rachelle is now aiming for the 2000 Summer Olympics in Australia. But what if her events are scheduled on Sunday? “The only thing I can say,” says Rachelle, “is to have faith. I just don’t see how I could change my mind. I have friends who went to the Olympics, but it didn’t change their lives. It was just another track meet that everyone cares about. I would just hope that the Lord would take care of it. And if not, he’s taking care of me.”
Editor’s Note: Since this story was written, Rachelle Noble won the Pac-10 track-and-field meet in the hammer throw, setting a meet record. The organizing committee had voted to change the event from Sunday to Saturday so Rachelle could participate.Rachelle has been called to serve in the Lithuania Vilnius Mission.

President Heber J. Grant recognized the role of BYU in providing teachers for the Church educational system. In the depths of the 1930s depression, financial pressures caused the First Presidency to announce the closure of all Church schools, including Brigham Young University. In a meeting following the announcement, a key member of the Brigham Young University Board of Trustees asked President Grant who would provide teachers for the Church. After a moment of reflection, the president reversed his decision regarding this institution. Most other Church schools were closed or given to the public sector. From the beginning, the mandate was clear. Brigham Young University’s role was to build testimony, prepare students for their work in the world, and provide teachers and leaders for the Church.

The courage of a military leader was recorded by a young infantryman wearing the gray uniform of the Confederacy during America’s Civil War. He describes the influence of General J. E. B. Stuart in these words:
“[At a critical point in the battle,] he waved his hand toward the enemy and shouted, ‘Forward men! Forward! Just follow me!’ …
“… With courage and resolution [they followed] after him like a wide raging torrent,” and the objective was seized and held.

Alan picked up one of the beer cans and studied it. “When’s the last time I held one of these?” he thought to himself.
It was in high school and he had been working at a gas station after school. He was just finishing up one night when a carload of kids from high school came in to get a dollar’s worth of gas. The driver, Nick Hill, got out and talked to him. Alan and Nick had played on the football team.
“Hey, when are you through working?” Nick asked.
“In about five minutes.”
“Why don’t you come with us? We’re just driving around. We’ve got an extra girl.”
“I should get home,” Alan said.
“You’re not afraid to go, are you?”
“No.”
“Then come along.”
“My folks’ll expect me home.”
“So what? You’re old enough to do what you want, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I’ll come, but just for an hour,” Alan said.
He had been in the car for only a few minutes when someone handed him a can of beer and an opener. He nervously stared at the can for a long time. The girl beside him looked at him with curiosity.
“Are you through with the opener?” someone in front asked. He handed the opener forward and gently placed the unopened can on the floorboard of the car.
Nick drove the car to an overlook above the town and parked. There were a few nervous jokes, and then it grew silent. Alan turned and looked at the girl next to him. She smiled awkwardly at him.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he finally asked her.
They got out and walked down a path near the edge.
“It’s a nice view,” he said.
“Yes, it really is.”
“I forgot your name,” Alan said.
“Candy.”
“Oh, sure. I’m sorry about tonight. I’m not very good at things like this.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You didn’t drink the beer.”
“No.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were. I was wondering what you’d do.”
“They said they were just going to drive around,” Alan said.
“You knew what it’d be like, though, didn’t you?” she asked.
“I guess so. Maybe I did. Maybe I just got tired of always saying no to people. Why did you come?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s fun to be asked—to be important to somebody—even for just a few hours. I can’t take being a nothing.”
“Is that what you think you are?”
“Yes. Isn’t that what you think I am?”
“No. You’re special.”
“I wish I were. I dream that I am—a movie star or something like that. But I’m just plain.”
“Can I teach you a song? A Mormon song? Would you mind?”
“What’s the name?”
“‘I Am a Child of God.’”
When they got back, they made noise purposely so Nick and the others would know.
“How long are we gonna be here?” Alan asked.
“We just got here,” Nick replied.
“I need to get home.”
“What’s the matter, are we corrupting you? We found your beer in the back. You didn’t drink it.”
“I don’t want it. You drink it.”
“Are you ever going to grow up and act like a man?” Nick asked.
“You don’t mean act like a man. You mean act like you. Never. I never want to be like you. Does that answer your question?”
Nick got out of the car, as did one of his friends. There was a fight, and before it was over, it was Nick and his friend against Alan. When they were through, they drove off and left him and Candy. After they stopped the nosebleed they both walked down the dirt road to the highway where they phoned a friend who came and gave them a ride back to town.
Alan tossed the empty beer can into the garbage container.

As I entered graduate school, I was married and working and needed to get good grades. One day my professor said something that caused me to lay hold.
He asked, “Do you want to do well in school? Do you want to know the secret? Do two things each day: first, study your scriptures before you study anything else; and second, don’t go home until your homework is done.”
It was like a lightbulb had turned on inside of me. I took his words to heart. From then on I carried my scriptures in my backpack, and when I would sit down to study, I studied my scriptures first. And I would stay in the library—where there was no TV and no distractions—each evening until my homework was done. As a result, the following two years were the only years I earned straight As in my classes.

Beginning a number of years ago, a young woman, Kathy Conwell, collected angels to put on a special Christmas tree she had at home. Kathy was a lovely young woman, a college student who learned that she had a very violent aggressive form of cancer. She had been told that she would not live long but that medical science would do everything it could to assist her, and she also received several blessings. Her collection eventually grew to 156 angels, covering a six-foot tree with lights and these special decorations. Kathy and her mother, Joy Conwell, would go to yard sales, post-Christmas sales, and anywhere little angels could be located. At her untimely death in October 1996, she asked her mother to distribute these angels to her friends. I was blessed to receive one of them. I have kept it in my office now for more than 400 days. She is now an angel herself. Her generosity goes on blessing us all.