Gospel Story Finder

Eventually, I went back to my town and my branch. It was then that I decided I wanted to serve a mission. This was a difficult decision for me because I had nothing and would be leaving behind people I loved. As I was trying to decide, I read D&C 84:81 and 88, which say, “Therefore, take ye no thought for the morrow, for what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or wherewithal ye shall be clothed … for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” I knew the Lord would care for me, so I turned in my mission papers and was called to the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission.

Every Sunday in a small town in Argentina, a group of people met under a tree to read the scriptures and learn about the gospel. Some of the people were members of the Church. But many of them hadn’t been baptized, and they really wanted to be!
They had a problem, though. They lived far away from other towns. No Church leaders had come to visit their town for some time.
Then they heard that some missionaries were in a town about four hours away. They all gave money so one man could buy a bus ticket to the town where the missionaries were. When he got there, he waited at the bus station. He thought that would be the best place to find the missionaries.
After a few hours, he saw two young men. They were the missionaries! He told them about the people in his town. So the missionaries and the mission president planned a trip to meet these people.
On the day that the mission president and the missionaries came, many people gathered together to meet them. Now those who hadn’t been baptized yet could get baptized. After they heard the missionary lessons, they were ready!
The closest river was very far away, so they pumped water from a well and filled up a portable swimming pool. It took three hours to fill the pool! In all, 27 women, men, and children got baptized that day. They were filled with joy!

“Halver,” Mother called as I sat on our adobe steps pulling cockleburs from my pants. “Run to the corral and open the gate for your father. He’s coming with the horses.”
Glancing toward the field, I saw our two workhorses, Button and Clipper, coming through the tall grass, their harnesses jangling as they walked. Father trudged behind them, holding the reins. He had left the plow in the field. I raced to the corral, jerked back on the wooden latch, and yanked the gate open.
Button and Clipper looked ragged and tired as they clomped slowly into the corral, their heads drooping, their sweating sides heaving, and their hooves knocking up puffs of dust as they walked. I felt sorry for them. They had been working hard all week, pulling the metal plow through the dark, damp dirt.
“It sure looks like they’re tired,” I said as I closed the gate.
“They’re worn out,” Father agreed. He pulled the harness off Clipper and slapped her on the rump, sending her toward the manger where some hay remained from the morning feeding. “At one time these two could have plowed that section of the field before noon. Now it takes all day. They’re getting too old for this kind of work.”
“Does this mean we’ll get a new team of horses?” I asked excitedly.
Father pulled Button’s harness off and hung it on the fence next to Clipper’s. “We can hardly put food on the table to feed ourselves,” he mumbled. “We can’t afford to buy another team. We’ll just have to make do with Clipper and Button.”
My shoulders sagged. Ever since we had moved back to Pacheco, Mexico, life had been tough. Pacheco was in the Sierra Madre Mountains and had been settled by members of the Church 30 years earlier. When the Mexican Revolution started in 1912, we Latter-day Saints had abandoned our ranches, farms, and homes to escape bandits and fighting armies. After the Revolution ended, some were able to return to their old houses, but most of us had to start all over again.
Father sighed as he studied Button and Clipper standing in the corral. “They need a good rest, Halver. How would you like to ride up to Strawberry Canyon with me tomorrow? There’s some good grazing there. Button and Clipper need to take it easy for a week or so, fatten up on that mountain grass, and catch their breath before we do the planting.”
Even though I was only seven, I was the oldest boy in the family and mighty proud that Father had invited me to help. We got up early the next day, put halters and lead ropes on Button and Clipper, and started through the trees.
A trail wound up to the mouth of the canyon, but Father didn’t want to take it. “I’m afraid if we take the horses up the trail, they’ll just wander back to the barn before nightfall,” he explained. “We’ll have to trick them.”
“How do you figure you’ll trick old Button and Clipper?” I asked.
“Strawberry is a long canyon, and the walls are pretty high and rugged. We’ll take Button and Clipper up along the top of the canyon to the far end; then we’ll climb down into the canyon from above. If we take them down that way, they won’t want to climb back out, and they won’t realize that they can just follow the canyon down to our place.”
Father’s plan sounded good, so we turned off the regular trail and rode along the mountain ridge running parallel to Strawberry Canyon. At first it wasn’t too hard, but then it got rocky and steep. The brush was thicker, and there wasn’t a regular trail to follow. Father walked ahead leading Clipper, while I followed riding Button bareback.
I started feeling nervous as Clipper and Button struggled to keep climbing. They were breathing hard, and sometimes Button stumbled over a rock or a root.
“We’re coming to some Johnny-jump-up,” Father called over his shoulder, “so keep your legs as high as you can.” Johnny-jump-up was a thorny bush that grew all along the mountain. It was mean and prickly.
Suddenly I got a dark, frightened feeling inside. I knew I should climb off Button and walk, even if I had to tromp through the prickly bushes. “Father, can I just walk behind Clipper and lead Button?” I asked hesitantly.
Not hearing me, Father kept walking. “Am I just scared?” I asked myself. I pressed my lips together. I wanted to be brave. I looked away from the canyon below and kept my eyes on Button’s long, pointed ears. But the feeling came again, this time even stronger. I didn’t hear a voice, but something told me to get off my horse and walk.
“Father, I want to get off Button and walk,” I called out. My voice sounded strange.
He stopped and looked back at me. “I was just thinking the same thing, Son.” He looked puzzled. “Slide off, but be careful.”
Slowly I slid off Button’s back, keeping him between me and the edge of the canyon. Once my feet reached the ground, I crept in front of the horse, took hold of the lead rope, and followed Clipper and Father. The thick Johnny-jump-up scratched my skin, but the bad feeling inside me went away.
We hadn’t walked more than a few feet when we came to another really steep spot. Just as we were starting to cross it, Button stumbled to the side. He scrambled to keep his balance, but the soft ground gave way. I tugged on the lead rope, trying to help him, but he was already sliding down the steep slope.
“Halver, let go of the rope!” Father called out.
I held on for a moment longer before letting go. As I did, Button’s back legs slipped out from under him and he fell on his hindquarters; then he tumbled and slid toward the canyon’s rocky ledge.
My eyes widened as I stared at poor Button slipping away from me. I hoped he would get his feet under him and steady himself so he could lunge to where Father, Clipper, and I waited. But it didn’t happen. He slid down further and rolled over the ledge, disappearing from sight.
I looked at Father, who still clutched Clipper’s lead rope. His face was white as he stared at the dreadful spot where we had last seen Button.
“I couldn’t hold him,” I rasped, trying desperately to explain.
“I didn’t expect you to hold him,” Father said gently. “That’s why I told you to let go of the rope.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” I croaked.
Father nodded slowly. He came back to where I stood and put his arm around my shoulders.
“How will we do the planting?” I worried out loud.
“We’ll figure that out later. But right now you’re safe—that’s what’s important. If you had stayed on him, you would have gone over the ledge, too.”
“I just knew I had to get off.” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I didn’t hear anything, but I knew in here that I had to get off.”
Father nodded. “I felt it, too. Someone was watching over us today, Halver. The Spirit whispered a warning, and I am thankful we listened.”
Father and I were sad about Button, but as we returned home, I felt warm inside. I knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ watched over me and that the Spirit would protect and guide me if I listened to His whispered warnings.

Years ago my father’s work took him to Australia. He was alone one Sunday, and he wanted to take the sacrament. He couldn’t find any information about Latter-day Saint Church meetings. So he started walking. He prayed to know which way to turn. After walking and making turns for an hour, he stopped to pray again. He felt an impression to turn at a particular street. Soon he began to hear singing coming from a building close by. He looked in at the window and saw a few people sitting near a table covered with a white cloth and sacrament trays.
That was only one example of a time when my father prayed and then did what the Holy Ghost told him to do. His whole life he did little things for God that he was prompted to do.

As soon as I read “Please Don’t Give In” in the September 1989 issue, I knew I must write. The young man who sent that letter does not know just how right he is. I, too, had many, many struggles in the Church, and I am one of those young women who gave birth to a baby in high school. Unlike some others, I finished high school and went on to college. I also went back to the Church. He is right. Repentance is possible, and he’s right again in saying it’s much better to stay clean from the start.
I dream of what my life would have been like if I had lived worthily and wasn’t now supporting my little family. But more than that, every day I think of a way, any way, to make other people understand that once you take a step down, it’s so much harder to get back up. I now have a stronger testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel than I ever thought I would have, and I thank the Lord sincerely for people who have the courage to stand up and tell their stories to help other youth of the Church.
Name withheld

And there are schools there. Schools that feature superlative female basketball players. The winning tradition has become a legacy that many of the little girls in town dream of joining. “I’ve always wanted to be on the team,” says Gaylene “Gidget” Gallagher, an energetic guard. “I’ve been trying to learn how to play since I was little. When the coaches finally started us in a program, I spent all my time in the gym.”

It was the same for Collette. “When I was just little I remember my dad saying, ‘Here—take this basketball and go dribble it around the house—and don’t use both hands!’”

Once Collette got to high school, basketball seemed to dominate just about everything else. “You just go to practice, come home, study, and go to bed,” she says. “You have no social life. Except after the games you might go get pizza or something, but that’s about it. All during the summer, you just practice.”

All that work seems to have paid off for Collette, who fits most people’s description of the all-American girl. In the summer of 1987, she was selected to be on a high school superstar team that traveled to Israel. She has managed to be active in seminary, Mutual, and student council, and she is rated second in her class academically, so you can tell she finds time for some other interests.

During the season, practices last at least three hours a day. And in the summertime, some of the players have been known to practice up to 12 hours a day. Coach Cluff, a loving, fatherly man who knows how to take charge, uses basketball as an opportunity to help his players learn the gospel.

“I’m simple enough to believe that everything is spiritual with Heavenly Father,” he says. “Whether it’s basketball, math, science, or whatever.” He always makes sure that there’s a prayer both before and after a game. “Kids can learn a lot about their Heavenly Father through basketball, if they use prayer, and hopefully those lessons will stick with them for the rest of their lives.”

What are some of the lessons they’ve learned? They’ve learned to stick to their standards, for one. “The community knows we’re not the partying type,” says Collette. In fact, the town residents know just about everything about the players on their championship team, from their grade point averages to the color of dress they wore to the prom. “The community knows that we’re probably the straightest people in the whole town. We can’t give in to temptation, even just a little bit, or everything will go down. Not just our reputation, but our abilities and our potential.”

“And it’s not always easy to set a strong example,” adds Paige. “It’s hard in a small town. You don’t have much to do that’s exciting. Everything gets real old real fast, so a lot of kids just turn to things like alcohol and drugs, and they think that makes them happy. I’ve seen them go through a lot of pain, and I’ve been able to avoid all that by following the Word of Wisdom and keeping my standards where they should be.”

They’ve learned that the missionary work they do through example is invaluable. Over the years, several team members have joined the Church thanks to the examples set by their LDS counterparts. And most of the LDS players today bring friends to Church activities and seminary. You might think there would be a certain breach between the LDS and non-LDS players, but they go out of their way to be unified.

“There’s never a division between the LDS girls and the others,” says Moni Ahlcrimn, a raven-haired forward with a sparkle in her blue eyes. “But they do watch us, and many times they kind of follow along with what we’re doing.”

Gidget thinks that that cohesiveness is the main reason for Kirtland’s success on the courts. “You have to be truly dedicated to teamwork to win,” she says. “We work so much together as a team. One of the reasons the other teams lose is because there’s conflict from within. But we really help each other. I think the main reason we do so well is that we’re like one big family.”

But even on a winning team, there are lessons to be learned about defeat. Angie Harris, the team center, hyperextended her knee during the second quarter of the first game of the record-breaking season, and was sidelined for the rest of the year. At least two surgeries have been necessary to get her back on her feet, and she’ll probably never play school ball again. Many players might be bitter over this, but not Angie. She reads the scriptures faithfully every day, and from them she’s learned that “the Lord isn’t going to give you challenges that you can’t handle. This injury wasn’t that bad. I played on the state championship team last year. This keeps it from going to my head.”

Oh, and of course there are the basic lessons to be learned about taking care of the temple which is your body. These girls are so into fitness that in the few seconds of spare time they have left over, they do things like coach little girls’ softball, work as a lifeguard at the community pool, play church volleyball and softball, compete on the school track team, and run just for the fun of it. That’s the main reason Moni is involved in basketball at all. She’s only been playing about three years, but she says, “The running is what I like best. I play to stay in shape.”

And they’ve learned to play, to eat, to drink and sleep—to live under pressure. Many people think the girls’ basketball program is the best thing that ever happened to Kirtland. “Now that we’ve got a streak going, nobody wants to be on the first team to lose,” says Coach Cluff. “The girls work real hard, under intense pressure from the community and from themselves and their teammates, to continue the winning tradition.”

With that kind of pressure, you can see why most of the girls are a bit relieved come graduation day when they hang up their tennies and go on to college. A few of them continue playing basketball—BYU’s star Karina Zapata is a product of Kirtland, and Collette hopes to play for a four-year university. Most of the players from the Kirtland basketball legacy, however, will give up ball in favor of books.

But they will never regret, and they will never forget, the things they learned from their magical years on the basketball team. Sure, their hook shots may fade, and they might not recall how they ever managed to pull down so many rebounds, but because they took their coach’s advice to “consider all things spiritual,” they’ll never forget the eternal principles they learned on a high school basketball court.

April awoke in the cold darkness to find her father’s hand shaking her. “Time to check the nannies again, honey,” he was saying.
“Why do mother goats have to have their babies so early in the year when it’s still so cold!” April moaned. Bracing herself for the shock, she jumped out of bed, grabbed her cold, rumpled clothes off the chair, and ran barefoot across the cold wooden floor to the fireplace in the living room. Her father already had the fire going, and April held her clothes in front of it to warm them before putting them on. It was a struggle to get her jeans on over her pajama bottoms, but they would help to keep her legs warm.
“Ready to go?” called her father from the back porch.
While she hurried into her coat and boots, April wondered if there would be any new kids this morning. The nannies had to be checked every three or four hours in case any were having trouble delivering their kids.
April’s father was just a black silhouette between her and the dim beam from the flashlight as they walked through the misty darkness. The north wind made them both hunch down in their coats.
The barn felt almost warm after the harsh wind. Turning on the light, they began to look over the nannies penned there. Her father always separated a newborn kid and its mother from the rest of the nannies for a few days. April called these small, private pens the maternity ward.
“Look, Dad, there’s one over in the corner.”
“OK, April, you get the kid. I’ll catch the nanny.”
April couldn’t resist rubbing her cheek against its small nose. It nuzzled her back, and she grinned up at her dad.
“Careful,” Dad warned her. “If you get too much of your smell on him, his mother might reject him.”
“I know, I know. But they’re so cute and so soft that I can’t resist just one little nuzzle.” She placed the kid by its mother and watched it begin to nurse.
By the time April and her father had finished checking the pens and feeding the goats, the cows were mooing to be milked and the dark of night was fading to the gray of dawn. April shivered, and her Brrrr came out in a small cloud. She was turning to go back into the warm barn when she saw a lone nanny outside the gate to the corral. April hurried to let her in. “Look, Dad,” she said. “That nanny has been out all night. She’s kidded too.”
“Yes,” said her father. “She probably came up to eat some hay. She’s hidden her kid somewhere in the pasture, and she won’t return to it until dark, when she can go without being seen.”
“But, Dad, a newborn kid can’t stay out in this cold all day. It will freeze to death.”
“Maybe. And maybe not. That pasture is a big one, and you’ll never find the kid, anyhow. Once a nanny tells her kid to hunker down, it won’t move, even if you stumble over it. It’s going to look just like a small rock out there. But you can start searching if you want, and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
As April walked, she checked all the white spots that she thought might be a baby goat. Her glance swept the pasture on all sides of her continually. Once she saw her father on the other side of a ravine, looking carefully about. A fifty-acre pasture sure is big when you’re looking for something small, she thought.
After what seemed like hours, April met her father. “We’d better give up,” he said. “There are just too many places for the kid to be hidden. I can’t spend any more time looking for it. Maybe if she found a sheltered place to leave the kid, it will still be alive tonight. Or it may already be dead. I’ll turn the nanny out again as soon as I get back to the barn. Just maybe she’ll go right back to her kid.”
April thought, If I’m cold with my thick coat on, how cold is that newborn kid? Her eyes swept the pasture again. I’ll keep looking a little longer, Dad.”
“OK, but don’t get yourself chilled. You’re worth more than any goat kid to me.”
April’s father walked away, disappearing in the mist that coated everything. The tiny drops that looked like small diamonds would only wet the kid’s hair, chilling it that much faster.
Please, Heavenly Father, help me to find it, April prayed silently as she searched. Don’t let it die! Please help me to find it. She had walked the whole pasture at least once and now was checking out places that she might have missed the first time. She thought of the warmth waiting back in the kitchen. I could be sitting at the breakfast table in fifteen minutes, she thought. I’m so cold and tired—and I did try.
She was turning toward the house when she remembered how good she had gotten at mimicking the nannies talking to their kids. She knew all their calls. Now she wondered if she could fool the hidden kid. She took a deep breath, and, from a low place in the back of her throat, let out her best maaa uh uh imitation of a nanny calling her kid to come nurse. Again she went maaa uh uh with all the urgency of a nanny trying to find her own baby in the midst of dozens of other kids. Then she added the unh unh unh loving sound a nanny makes when she has found her own and is urging it to nurse.
April stopped and listened. Silence. She called again and listened. Then she heard it—a very faint naaah close by.
Calling as she walked, she heard the kid answering. Suddenly, almost at her feet, what looked like a rock lying by a log struggled up onto four legs.
“Oh, you poor, wet thing!” she cried. Gathering the kid in her arms, she tucked it inside her coat to warm it. She talked to it in goat language, and it nuzzled her under the chin. Walking toward the warmth of the house, she whispered, “Too soon! I almost quit too soon. Thank you, Heavenly Father.” Then, laughing happily, she told the kid, “That’s what I’ll name you—Too Soon.”

I then drove to the hospital with a concern in my heart for the well-being of the two other beautiful young women who had been involved in the accident. Little did I realize that the lessons I would learn about Christlike character lessons taught by seemingly ordinary disciples were just beginning.

I arrived at the hospital and proceeded to the emergency room. After properly establishing who I was and my relationship to the victims, I was invited into two different treatment areas to identify the injured young women. It was obvious that their respective wounds were serious and life threatening. And the lovely countenances and physical features of these young women had been badly marred. Within a relatively short period of time, the two remaining young women died. All three of these virtuous, lovely, and engaging young women who seemed to have so much of life in front of them suddenly had gone home to their Eternal Father. My attention and the attention of the respective families now shifted to funeral arrangements and logistics.

A day or so later, in the midst of program planning and detail arranging for the three funerals, I received a phone call from the Relief Society president of my home ward. Her daughter had been one of the victims in the accident, and she and I had talked several times about her desires for the funeral program. This faithful woman was a single mother rearing her only child, her teenage daughter. I was especially close to this woman and her daughter having served as both their bishop and stake president. After reviewing and finalizing several details for the funeral of her daughter, this good sister said to me, President, I am sure it was difficult for you to see my daughter in the emergency room the other day. She was severely injured and disfigured. As you know, we will have a closed casket at the funeral. I have just returned from the funeral home, and they have helped my daughter to look so lovely again. I was just wondering . . . why don't we arrange a time when we can meet at the mortuary and you can have one last look at her before she is buried. Then your final memories of my daughter will not be the images you saw in the emergency room the other day. I listened and marveled at the compassion and thoughtfulness this sister had for me. Her only daughter had just been tragically killed, but she was concerned about the potentially troublesome memories I might have given my experience in the emergency room. In this good woman I detected no self pity and no turning inward. Sorrow, certainly. Sadness, absolutely. Nevertheless, she reached outward when many or perhaps most of us would have turned inward with sorrow and grief.

Last spring the softball team was playing a game against Louisiana Tech. The score was 0 to 0 in the fifth inning. The Louisiana Tech lead-off hitter sent a ball deep to center field. The umpire ruled that it was a ground rule double because the ball had bounced over the fence. The BYU center fielder, while chasing the ball, stumbled over the fence. Coach Amicone went to see if she was okay, and she told her she was but that the ball went over the fence, making it a home run. This was also confirmed by both the left and right fielders.

Coach Amicone went to the second-base umpire and told him the ball had gone over the fence without bouncing, so it was a home run. The second-base umpire met with the home-plate umpire, and they decided since it was a judgment call, he had to leave the Louisiana Tech player at second base.

Later in the game the umpire told BYU’s catcher that he had never seen anyone come to an umpire to tell him the ball went over the fence as a home run when the call was favorable to their team. He was amazed by the honesty of the players. In all his experience he had never seen anything like that before.

Bobbie sat on the edge of the pool, looking at the warm, clear water. She remembered that last summer she had run into the waves at the beach. And at the neighborhood pool, she had stood in the shallow end and stuck her head underwater. She had even opened her eyes to count her fingers. This year she had learned to float around in the deep end of the indoor pool.
But today Bobbie just sat on the edge of the big indoor pool and worried. She watched some of her friends kicking up and down the pool lanes, holding onto blue and red kickboards. Bobbie had already done that. In fact, last week Bobbie had kicked all the way down and all the way back in the pool. She secretly thought that she might be the best kicker in her class.
Others in her class were in the shallow end, practicing their overhand strokes. Bobbie could lean over and do a really good crawl stroke. Her swimming instructor had told her how nicely her arms curved when she pulled them through the water.
Another small group was working on breathing. They blew into the water, then breathed in, then blew, then breathed in. Bobbie knew that she could do the breathing. She had worked on that in the bathtub as well as at the beach and in the pool.
Bobbie looked at the depth marker—10 FEET. She looked up at the sign over the door—THIS POOL IS 75 FEET LONG.
I can breathe correctly, and I can kick a good, strong kick, she thought. And my arms don’t get tired.
Just then the buzzer sounded for class to be over. Slowly Bobbie got up from the steps. If only I had a little more time … She really hated to get dressed and go home. Mother wouldn’t say anything. She would smile at Bobbie, sort of raise her eyebrows expectantly, and have an encouraging twinkle in her eyes. But Bobbie would have no beginner’s swimming card to show.
All that week Bobbie walked to the pool, she put on her swimsuit, grabbed a kickboard, and kicked up and down the pool. She practiced her arm strokes until she was quite sure no one could do them any better. She blew bubbles and breathed in, and she even sat on the bottom of the pool in the shallow end.
But each time Bobbie went over to the deep end of the pool and thought about jumping into ten feet of water, she knew she just couldn’t do it.
Every once in a while, Bobbie saw her swimming instructor smiling at her. When Bobbie felt that she was ready to put her arm strokes and her kicking and her breathing all together and swim the length of the pool, her instructor would be right there beside her. So Bobbie wasn’t afraid of sinking.
Bobbie started thinking about just why she couldn’t jump into the deep water and swim to the other end. I must be afraid of something. I wonder what it is. It isn’t the water. It isn’t my teacher, and it certainly isn’t Mother. It’s not my friends, either. Some of them still haven’t learned how to breathe or kick or do the arm strokes. Bobbie thought about all the people who would love her whether she learned to swim this summer or not.
Suddenly Bobbie realized that there was one person she had not thought of—herself. I’m afraid because I don’t want to fail. As long as I don’t try to swim, I can tell myself that when I do try it, I’ll be the best one in the class. But once I jump into that water, maybe I’ll find out that I can’t do it.
Bobbie looked up at the clock. Class wouldn’t be over for another half hour. She left the pool area, went into the dressing room, faced herself in the mirror, and said, “Bobbie, just go do it. Even if you don’t make it today, you can try again tomorrow. The important thing is to try. You’ve got to believe in yourself.”
The mirror Bobbie looked back at the real Bobbie. They smiled at each other.
Walking quickly back into the pool area, Bobbie stood by her swimming teacher and said, “I’m ready to try.”

I saw that happen when I was a young man. I was the first assistant in a priests quorum. The bishop called me one day at my home. He said that he wanted me to go with him to visit a widow in great need. He said he needed me.
As I waited for him to pick me up at my home, I was troubled. I knew the bishop had strong and wise counselors. One was a famous judge. The other ran a large company and would later become a General Authority. The bishop himself would someday serve as a General Authority. Why was the bishop saying to an inexperienced priest, “I need your help”?
Well, I know better now what he might have said to me: “The Lord needs to bless you.” At the home of the widow, I saw him, to my amazement, tell the woman that she could get no help from the Church until she filled out the budget form he had left with her earlier. On the way home, as he saw how shocked I was, he chuckled at my surprise and said, “Hal, when she gets control of her spending, she will be able to help others.”

“Serving a mission in Brazil was a great turning point in my life,” declared Elder Sorensen. “When I was twenty and had just completed two years of college at the University of Chicago on an academic/athletic scholarship, I had doubts about my going on a mission. When I returned home that summer, Mom said to me, ‘Well, now you can prepare for your mission.’”
Elder Sorensen told his mother that he had changed his mind and didn’t think that he would serve a mission. “I’ll never forget the hurt look on Mom’s face,” he recalled, “after I told her my decision. She didn’t scold me, but afterward she privately cried and prayed.
“I didn’t go back to school in Chicago that fall. With the help of Mom and Dad and a wise and understanding bishop, I accepted a mission call to Brazil and left for South America in 1940.
“It wasn’t very long after I arrived in the mission field and began studying the scriptures regularly that my testimony really began to grow. Since then it has never wavered but has grown stronger. I’m grateful to the Lord and my parents for guiding me at that very important crossroad.
“Children, listen to your parents. They love you more than anyone else does, except your Father in Heaven, who has an even greater capacity to love. If you follow their good teachings and example, you will always be happy that you did. And remember to follow the counsel and guidance of Church leaders, particularly your bishop.”

May I share, as best I can recall it, an experience I had several years ago. I was teaching a large institute class during the hippy era. One evening, partway through the class, a student, whom I knew but who had not attended class before, walked in. I was surprised to see her. She had with her a young man. The young man came wearing a pair of bib overalls, no shirt, no shoes and had long, unkempt hair. The two sat down in the back of the room and the minute class was over they were gone. I thought that was probably the last I would see of her for awhile and I would probably never see him again. To my surprise they attended the next few classes. In one particular class the lesson was on prayer. As you know it can be intimidating to be called on to pray at the end of a lesson on prayer. You want to say it just right. As we were about to conclude the lesson I felt I should call upon this young man to pray and I thought, “that is crazy.” But the impression was there and so without the courage to even look at the young man, I announced that he would give the closing prayer. To my surprise, he stood. I cannot duplicate his prayer nor should I try, but I would like to give you a feel, from my perception, of what happened. He closed his eyes and said something like this, “God, I guess that’s your name, this is strange, I’m not even sure you are there, but I hope you are, I would like to believe you are. I’m not quite sure what all this is about. You know I’ve been lost and confused and I really do not understand much about life. I have felt something really different and wonderful here and I would like to know if you are really there and if I really am your son. Is it possible for you to let me know that?”

I don’t need to tell you there wasn’t a dry eye in the class. I don’t know that I had ever heard anyone talk to God as openly and honestly as this young man did. It wasn’t very long before he had a testimony and asked to be baptized. At his baptism he bore his testimony. It wasn’t an eloquent testimony in terms of the words or the length. He simply said something like, “I know there is a God, I know He loves me, I have never been happier and I am excited to be baptized.”

A couple of weeks later as I was walking down the hallway of the Church on a Sunday morning, I could see this young man coming toward me. He was wearing a dress coat, a shirt, tie, (none of which matched very well) and had a missionary type hair cut. He came running up to me and said, “Today is one of the most exciting days of my life. Do you know why?” I said “No, tell me.” He said, “Today I am going to get the priesthood. Brother Moore, do I look like a priesthood man?” Despite the mismatched clothes, he looked like a priesthood man to me. The spiritual knowledge this young man had come to know completely changed him and the direction of his life.

I will always remember one time when I performed the sealing for an ancestor. She had lived a difficult life, including the death of her first husband, the death of a toddler, and bankruptcy. During the sealing, the veil was thin, and the joy she felt while receiving her covenants was palpable. The Spirit filled my heart and the hearts of everyone in the room. It drew me closer to my Savior and gave me a surer witness of Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and the eternal nature of families.

On a recent trip to New Zealand, I met with a mission president who wore a beautiful tie tack with the inspiring CTR, or “Choose the Right,” emblem. I had the impression that there must be a story behind this unique pin. When I returned home, I wrote him a thank-you letter and asked him about his tie tack. I received this answer:
“You are very perceptive. Yes, there is a story. I have a number of tie tacks I really prize. They have been gifts from my children, my wife, and friends. However, I choose to wear this silver shield inlaid with lovely blue turquoise, with the inspiring CTR emblem of our Primary.
“Why? I suppose it started back when I was a bishop. I had an interview with a good-looking young man who was to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. He told me a special story. One day after school, he and some of his friends found a package of cigarettes. They lit up, and the young man said as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out and made a very wise choice never ever to do such a thing again. He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for. From this story I gained a special love for the CTR emblem.
“Now for the story of how I received the CTR tie tack. A few weeks before coming to New Zealand as a mission president, I was in the Kayenta Ward in Arizona. As I was saying some tender farewells to many of my Navajo friends, a remarkable young Navajo bishop gave me a big hug, then removed his tie tack and pinned it on my tie. He asked me not to forget him.
“Now here in New Zealand, the last thing I do every morning as I dress for this great calling is to pin my tie with this beautiful silver and turquoise CTR emblem. I love it! It helps this old boilermaker make the right choices throughout the day. I know it also helps fulfill the prophetic promise made to my wife and me by President Gordon B. Hinckley as he set us apart.
“He said words to this effect: ‘You will have an instant bonding of love for every missionary in your mission.’ I can’t tell you how many times a missionary, during a visit, has said something like this: ‘President Gardner, I love your tie tack.’ And then he or she will show me their CTR ring.
“I believe that Navajo bishop was inspired to give me the tie tack and that I make the right decision every day when I choose to wear it. And the beautiful blue and silver CTR pin is helping bond me to a royal army of missionaries in the New Zealand Wellington Mission.
“I appreciate the opportunity of relating to you my special experience associated with this great Primary children’s motto, ‘Choose the Right.’”

As I casually peered out the window, an unexpected stomach spasm began at the sight of an all-too-familiar car pulling into our driveway. It shot from the pit of my stomach, tickling its way upward, stopping briefly to flip-flop my heart, then climaxed in my throat with a delighted scream. Matthew Conally was here! Actually here at my house! He was only the most coveted hero on campus. And he was actually here!
I began to run to the door, but just as I realized it wouldn’t look cool, I tripped, falling flat on my face, and from my now horizontal position, I had a horrifyingly realistic view of our living room floor. It was covered with blocks, Lincoln logs, doll clothes, doll furniture, a dollhouse, and among other things, that rotten Tonka truck I had just tripped over.
As I picked myself up, another unexpected spasm began. Only it began in my throat, draining all the moisture, and dropped downward until it landed with a painful thump in the pit of my stomach. The living room was a total disaster area! What kind of an impression would it make? Grabbing up an armful of coats, newspapers, and books, I relocated them into the next room. Next, I began kicking anything else that would fit into and under the sofa and then threw the cushions back into their natural position on top. As I ran past the window, I could see that Matthew was having a hard time climbing over the tricycles in the driveway. I dumped another quick load down the hall just as the doorbell rang. A final glance around the room revealed that I had cleared out most of the clutter.
Putting on my calmest smile and trying to concentrate all my 16 years into a look of maturity, I opened the door. Then there we were, face to face, Matthew Conally and me, his biggest fan.
“Well hi!” I said in my sweetest, most surprised voice.
“Hi. How are you?” came his refined reply.
“Just fine. Won’t you come in?” I most invitingly smiled back.
Matthew strolled through the door and handed me a book.
“Well, I just dropped by to bring you back your book. You left it in the car the other night. You know, the night I brought the gang home.”
“Oh, really? Gee, thanks for bringing it by. I was beginning to wonder where I had left it.” That was my coolest response yet, but I was letting my cool go too far. I knew darn well that I had left it on purpose as an excuse to see him again.
But of all times, why had he chosen this day to return it! The whole house was such a mess because I was in charge. Mother was in the hospital with a new baby. It was very evident that I wasn’t as organized as she. I watched Matthew’s puzzled expression as he looked around the room and into the kitchen. That was the worst spot in the whole house! Nothing in the kitchen was in its proper place. Aside from every dish, pot, and pan piled high in the sink, every box, package, mixing bowl, and canister was stacked on the counters.
With a crush like I had on Matthew, I knew enough about his life history to write a book. He was an only child, and it didn’t take much to know he’d never seen a mess like this one. Matthew was suddenly aware I was watching him. He calmly lifted his eyebrows and tried to explain.
“Oh, I, I was just wondering if, if I could have a drink of water.” He seemed pleased at his quick response.
“Sure,” I said, “but you’ll have to excuse the mess.” This seemed like the only natural thing to say. I reluctantly led him into the kitchen and was even further embarrassed to find that there weren’t any clean cups. Quickly I grabbed a clean bowl and filled it. Then I handed it to him with an apologetic smile.
“You’re lucky today,” I chuckled encouragingly, “sometimes it gets down to plates!” Matthew didn’t say anything. I was going to explain about Mom and the new baby and me being in charge of eight younger brothers and sisters, plus the house, when Kent and Steve came running into the kitchen chasing each other. They made it around our legs twice and over the kitchen table, throwing chairs for barricades. After they had made two more laps, I was furious and, without thinking, handed the baby I had rescued from the floor to Matthew and excused myself.
I ran after the boys, even though their size was in their favor. They darted around the furniture in the bedroom—over, under, through, and between. I finally caught two handfuls of hair and found, much to my delight, a brother attached to each. After threatening them with the termination of their lives, I returned to the living room, panting. There I found Matthew still holding little Jerry in the same position. He hadn’t moved an inch. It was obvious he didn’t know what to do with the baby. When he saw me, he quickly handed him back, giving Jerry a nasty little smile.
“What in the world is he wearing?” he asked.
“Oh … ah … it’s a towel. We’re all out of clean diapers.”
We sat down as I tried to explain about the circumstances.
“You see, the washing hasn’t been done yet. My mom is in the—” Again my explanation was interrupted. Matthew’s eyes suddenly grew terrified, and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. Quickly I grabbed Jerry, prying his teeth away from Matthew’s arm. Little Jerry was teething and happened to like the feel of flesh against his sore little mouth. But Matthew didn’t understand.
“I think he likes you,” I told him reassuringly.
“And I think you’re right,” he replied as the baby once again squirmed his way back onto his lap. But this time, very much to Matthew’s relief, Jerry sat quietly, beaming his toothy grin. Then into the room came Kent and Steve and Lori and Cathy, dancing and singing, “Ginnie’s got a boyfriend! Ginnie’s got a boyfriend!” One glance at the look on my face, and they knew it was time to leave.
My anger and embarrassment were suddenly forgotten as I heard Matthew’s terrified voice announce, “I think he’s wet!” Again I quickly rescued Jerry from his lap. Jerry wasn’t wearing plastic pants and, boy, was Matthew soaked!
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry about all this.”
Matthew followed me down the hall. Then as I opened the door I found myself staring at another embarrassing mess! I had forgotten I had hung flannel sheets in place of towels on the racks. Again I was apologizing.
“I used all the towels as diapers!”
“What kind of a madhouse do you live in?” I was surprised to find his good looks fading away with his anger. “This place ought to be condemned!”
Matthew stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him as I began to apologize. The doorbell rang. I slowly walked down the hall back to the living room and sank down onto the sofa. I just couldn’t face anyone now.
The bathroom door swung angrily open. Out charged Matthew with a huge wet spot on his pants. It looked terrible. He said nothing, just stormed out of the house.
“My mom had a baby,” I quietly called after him. “It was a girl.”
The front door had been left open and in through it came Charlie. Good old Charlie Miller, the best piggyback-ride-giver and sidewalk-snow-shoveler in the neighborhood, with a smile big enough to make a pumpkin jealous.
“Hi, Ginnie! I rang the bell, but nobody answered. Hey, what’s wrong? What was Matthew Conally doing here?”
He sat down and listened as I told him about the whole horrible mess. Suddenly I was surprised to hear the sound of laughter. Charlie thought it was funny! And then I was laughing, too. We howled until we thought we’d break. The tears were rolling down my face from pure delight. How come everything suddenly seemed so funny?
Charlie had come over with a pie his mother had baked. But it was after he had changed Jerry’s diapers and was helping with the dishes that I realized he was truly something special. Quietly I slipped my name bracelet into his coat pocket—just in case he needed a reason to come back over.

Lisa Griffiths, who plays the role of Kris Douglas, learned some valuable lessons when she had to put herself in her character’s shoes. When Lisa went to audition for the part, she had her confidence shaken. “I asked myself, What am I doing here? My application, where I was supposed to list my experience and training, was blank. I prayed very hard that if I needed to do the role because there was something I had to give to the character or that she had to give to me, I would know how to read the script.”
When Lisa got the part, she told her roommates, “I had the best acting coach—the Lord. That must have been it, because I certainly was not as experienced as the others.”
Lisa said that in some ways she is like Kris, but in others she isn’t. She knows a lot about her character and can anticipate what Kris might do in different situations. “Kris always seems to know how to phrase things or how to subtly get the message across. I can feel it, but verbalizing it is hard for me.
“She has incorporated the scriptures into her life. She really tries to apply what she is reading to what she is doing,” Lisa said when she described Kris, almost as if this fictional character were a close friend. “She does start to resent the fact that she is always the good one and her twin sister gets a lot of attention for the rebellious things she does. She focuses on herself for a little while until she straightens it out.”
Lisa applied the lesson she learned from playing the part of Kris to her own life. “I learned to check where my focus was. I was pulling on some natural feelings. I have a sister who is a performer. She’s fantastic, and I look up to her in so many ways. I have felt the role before of the younger sister that doesn’t get the attention sometimes. There have been times I have let that get to me, so I knew that what Kris was feeling really happens—that you really do get jealous. I can see when my focus was on myself, when I wasn’t applying things I had learned in church, things didn’t work out. I still have to do that kind of checking.”
Lisa is a little embarrassed to remember that she and her friends used to laugh a little at the filmstrips they watched in seminary. That made her want to perform so that her character was believable. “I wanted to make this character real so that at least one person who watched it would stop and say, What is she really saying? What is she really wondering about? The whole cast set that as a goal.
“I did make fun of the filmstrips when I was in seminary,” said Lisa. “We had little jokes about what they were wearing and their hairstyles. I can remember when the wardrobe lady was dressing me and doing my hair. I thought, Now I know why we laughed. I would laugh sometimes at myself while I was doing it. It was a humbling experience. There is a message behind what the characters are wearing and how their hair looks. There is a message or a mood behind it all.”
Kris talked about the most difficult part of the video for her. “The hardest scene for me,” said Lisa, “was when I was sitting on the porch with my grandfather and we are looking at the stars. He’s saying how lonely it feels when he looks up there. Kris sees it as the Lord saying He is there for people and that He loves you no matter what. That was a hard scene for me because I believed what I was saying, and I was very worried that it would come across sappy or trite to high school students watching it. There are times we do feel alone, but there are times when we’ve got to know that we really are not. The Lord is there for us.”
Learning that each of us has to rely on guidance from our Heavenly Father is the whole purpose of the “I Will Lead You” videotape. And that guidance is contained in the scriptures. Lisa said, “I learned to read my scriptures every day to get something out of them to hold onto. That was the idea of the films. Sometimes you can’t handle it all. You just don’t have the answers. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t seem fair. You have to remember that even if you don’t feel the Lord, his hand is there and he is leading you.”

Mother took pieces of wood from a dwindling pile on the kitchen floor and put them through the open door of the cookstove. She was heating the oven to bake bread. Six loaves were rising on the warming shelf along the top of the stove. A rush of warm air met Jack, my brother, who was five, and Uncle Bob, who was ten, as they brought in armloads of wood and stacked them carefully beside the stove. In my dad’s family, boys were considered men when they were ten years old, and they were expected to do a full day’s work.
Uncle Bob is my dad’s youngest brother. Dad was about seventeen when Uncle Bob was born. Dad always had a special love for him. No matter where we lived, Dad would get lonesome to see Uncle Bob and would often go home to his parents’ place just to see him.
As he was growing up, Uncle Bob often came to our home. He helped Dad with the haying and the fieldwork. He carried wood for my mother. He really enjoyed eating all the delicious food Mother prepared.
The rest of Dad’s family had been converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after Dad was grown and had left home. Uncle Bob was the youngest member of Dad’s family, and he had a special testimony of the Church.
One day Uncle Bob stacked an armload of wood and turned to my mother. The Spirit was strong in his heart as he began to explain the things he had been learning in church and through study of the scriptures and personal prayer. He told her many things about the gospel of Jesus Christ and about Joseph Smith’s praying to know which church was true and discovering that not one of the churches in his day had the fullness of the gospel. Uncle Bob told her how Joseph Smith had been privileged to see God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ, and to know for himself that they had bodies of flesh and bone, just as he had. Uncle Bob’s eyes never wavered from my mother’s face as he bore his strong testimony.
Mother didn’t believe a boy so young as Uncle Bob could know these things. She became angry at the words she was hearing and told Uncle Bob, “You may come back to my house anytime, but never mention these things here again.”
Uncle Bob loved my parents and wanted to come as often as he could. He agreed. “Aunt Ruth, I will never mention these things again in your home, I promise. I also promise you that someday you will ask me to baptize you.”
Now, this was many years ago, when young people did not speak their minds. They were expected to show respect to those who were older than they. It took a lot of courage for Uncle Bob to speak to my mother this way.
We spent many happy times with Uncle Bob. He stayed with us occasionally while our parents went to visit my mother’s family. He never broke his promise to my mother by again speaking of the great truths of the gospel or bearing his testimony, not even when both of our parents were away.
One year, Uncle Bob came to stay for two weeks. My sister, Jeannie, made spice cake every day. We whipped a half-gallon canful of pure cream for the topping. The smells seemed to curl around the corners of the room and out to the fields where Jack and Uncle Bob worked. It made your mouth water, it was such a tangy odor. But not even then, with a stove full of wood and stomach full of sweet spice cake did Uncle Bob break his vow to my mother.
The years kept going by, one by one. Uncle Bob grew up, married, and had six sons and one daughter. He always stayed close to the Church. He knew that it was true. He held many callings over the years. He served wherever he was needed, and in later years he became a stake patriarch and a temple worker in the Portland Oregon Temple.
In 1971 Uncle Bob was fifty years old and my mother was sixty-four when she telephoned him one day. It’s curious—after all those years, she still remembered! Mother said, “Will you come, Bob. Will you come and baptize me?” On April 15, 1971—forty years after my uncle had made his promise to her—he baptized my mother a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Now, the second experience:
I’d only been home from my mission a couple days when I stopped in to see my mother who was just finishing up another academic year of teaching Spanish and English at my high school. As I passed under sagging banners swaying from the ceiling I reminisced about the three somewhat angst-filled years of my life I’d spent there. Without warning I suddenly found myself nose-to-nose with one of my former teachers. She had absent-mindedly entered the hallway with a stack of papers in her hands and we nearly collided. As she looked up into my face she said one of the more memorable things I’ve ever heard. She said: “You look holy”! What?! Me… Holy?… Her unexpected greeting was particularly surprising because she was not a member of the Church, and it had been no secret that she harbored negative feelings about Church as well. As I recovered from my shock, I was pleased to tell her that I’d just returned from a mission. I was hopeful that this experience might be a seed to better things regarding the restored gospel for her. As we parted, I was floored by the implications of her observation. … Me… Holy…
In the 2005 October General Conference, Sister Susan W. Tanner serving as the Young Women’s General President explained,
I had seen this happen in other’s lives in the mission field, but up that point I had no idea that such a change was also happening in me![3] However preliminary and unfinished it was, I had begun to receive Christ’s image in my countenance – in a literal and discernable way. Over the years since my teacher’s startling statement, I’ve searched the gospel to understand this dynamic connection between our spirits and our bodies; and, by extension just how that informs our real test of life.

I play baritone sax in my high school’s marching band. One day we got on buses to go to our last competition of the season, and everyone was excited and ready to compete. We put everything we had into our final show, and it was one of our best performances. We were soon done and were waiting quietly in line with other bands to receive our awards when one of my friends behind me started to make conversation. Before long we were having a great time—talking, laughing, and joking around—while we waited to take the field again for the awards ceremony. I looked around and saw that other bands started doing the same.
One of my friends told a joke, but the punch line had a cuss word in it. I asked him to cut it out, and when everyone asked why, another one of my friends stepped in and said it was because I was Mormon and didn’t like to hear that type of language. I was relieved to see that my good friend knew about my standards and was willing to stand up for them. But I was still a little embarrassed that I was the one to ruin the fun everyone was having telling jokes, so I turned around to go join another group of friends.
Right as I turned, I heard someone to the right of me yell, “Hey! I’m Mormon too!” I glanced over to see a member of another band smiling at me. We started to talk and were soon explaining to groups of friends in both bands what our standards are and why we have them. As more and more people joined to ask questions and hear our answers, I was starting to feel overwhelmed by the questions being thrown at us—not because they were hard questions but because there were so many!
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it was another question, I continued answering the current question. I felt the tap again, so I turned and saw yet another young man from a different band smiling at me. “Are you guys talking about Mormonism? Dude! I’m Mormon too!” I couldn’t believe it! We all soon gathered up the Mormons in each of our bands to share our testimonies and experiences with everyone in the crowd. It was so fun to be surrounded by people I knew shared my same standards and beliefs and to teach others about the gospel.