Gospel Story Finder

The first free-lance article I submitted to the New Era was … well … much like wearing a tuxedo to a pool party. Inappropriate.
Without opening the magazine, I had mailed off a six-page essay on what I had learned being a convert to the Church. The rejection letter arrived in my college dorm mailbox a month later. “How dare they?” I demanded, showing the story to a few young people in my Sunday School class.
“Uh, good spelling,” one said, handing it back without turning the page.
“It’s very neat,” said another, not getting past the first paragraph.
It quickly became obvious there wasn’t a 15-year-old in the Church who would read my dry essay. I hadn’t done my homework, and the rejection letter proved it.
I tried again. This time I dug a stack of New Eras out of my drawer and read. It took a few days, but I got a feel for the style of the magazine—the way the anecdotal leads drew you into more serious topics; the up-tempo, spiritual kids featured in the stories; the faith-building experiences people wrote about.
And, as I read, I learned a few important points—that the New Era is particular about what it prints, and how it is presented.
A few days later, I again found myself in front of my typewriter. I stopped trying to summarize all I had learned since becoming a member of the Church. Instead, I focused on one event that happened while I was growing up in Canada and what I learned from it.
It took a lot of writing and rewriting to make the piece fit the style of the magazine. But a few weeks after I sent the article off, the editors mailed me a nice letter saying they’d like to purchase my story. The New Era wasn’t unreachable after all.

When I was growing up, one of my jobs was to burn the trash. I would gather the garbage from the house. I’d put it in a big metal barrel in the backyard. Then I would light a match and drop it in the barrel.
One day it was really windy, and the match just wouldn’t stay lit. I decided to make a torch out of newspaper. I thought that way the flame would last long enough to light the trash on fire. I remembered that it wasn’t smart to play with fire, but I ignored the warning feeling. I rolled up some newspaper into a cone, lit it with a match, and dropped it into the barrel.
Whoosh! The strong wind made the newspaper burst into flames, and the trash quickly caught fire. Big flames blew past my face. Luckily most of my hair was pulled back into a ponytail. But my bangs were singed into crisp little wisps! My eyelashes were gone, and my eyebrows too. It just happened so fast!
That taught me a lesson: if you play with something dangerous, you can get hurt! Our parents and the Holy Ghost warn us to avoid dangerous things like pornography and drugs. If we choose to ignore the warnings, there are harmful consequences.
I’m grateful that my hair grew back over time. That’s like repentance. When we make wrong choices, we can choose to change. We can be forgiven because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. No matter how young or old we are, our Savior is always there to help us. We can feel peace again, just like on the day we were baptized.
Heavenly Father gave us commandments because He loves us. He wants to protect and help us. What wonderful gifts Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ have given us!

As a teenager, Gerrit loved to go backpacking and hiking with the other young men in his ward. Wally Salbacka, a lifelong friend, remembers one camping trip in particular. “I was there with Gerrit and his brother, Brian, and a friend who wasn’t a member of our Church. For some reason, we started singing hymns. Gerrit sang melody, Brian sang tenor, and I sang bass. I think we sang 10 or 20 hymns, just for the joy of singing. It was a good experience. Our nonmember friend was impressed.”

I was sitting at a table with some friends in our middle school cafeteria when the topic of Christ’s Second Coming came up. My friends were not very religious, but they had been to church enough times to have heard of the prophesied event. They also knew that I went to church regularly and that I had a firm belief in the Savior.
We talked about it for a while, and in response to their questions I told them that no one knows exactly when Christ will come again. One of my friends turned to me and said quite seriously, “Jade, if the Second Coming happens soon and Jesus Christ comes, I may not recognize Him. Will you point Him out to me?”
Of course I said I would, and we started talking about other things.
My friends have probably never thought about that conversation again, but I have thought of it many times. Based on what I said and did, my friends assumed that I knew the Savior. In fact they counted on me to know Him! But do I really? Could I answer yes to Alma’s question, “Have ye received his image in your countenance” (Alma 5:14)?
That casual question asked by my friend has caused me to evaluate my relationship with the Savior many times. For example, is my personal prayer and scripture study meaningful enough that it brings me closer to Him? I hope so. And I hope that one day when Christ does come, I can stand before Him with a pure heart and clean hands. Then not only will I be able to easily recognize Him, but He will be able to recognize me because I will have His image engraven upon my countenance (see Alma 5:19).

“I’m afraid to invite nonmembers to meet the missionaries because:
“They might say no.”
“I don’t know how they’ll react to the missionaries.”
“Everyone might be uncomfortable.”
Even though I was nervous about it, I decided to invite some neighbors to spend a home evening with us. We asked the missionaries to join us. We hoped that through this experience our friends would learn that the missionaries were normal young men with an enthusiasm for life and a genuine interest in their family’s happiness.
After visiting and enjoying refreshments, our conversation developed into a calm discussion about the gospel. An hour and a half later, our neighbors—still our friends—left with a copy of the Book of Mormon with our testimony written inside.

While attending high school, I was reluctant to socialize with anyone who smoked or drank, either in school or out of school. I had friends at other schools who would invite me to worldly parties, but I chose not to attend. Rather, I wanted to be a light, or an example, to my friends by showing them that it was possible to live in the world but not of the world.
My example helped many of my youthful friends to become missionaries and great workers in the Church today.
I always remember the saying, “A huge fire started as a little flame.”
Pongia Vaka, 21,Havelulotu Second Ward, Nuku’alofa Tonga South Stake

Rebecca’s best friend, Cindy, lived just down the street. They played together all the time. They played with the same dolls and rode on the same bikes and even liked to dress alike.
One day, Cindy came over to play. She was carrying a big plastic bag.
“I brought you some clothes I grew out of,” Cindy said. “I thought you might like them.”
“Thanks!” Rebecca said. “Now I can really dress like you.”
Later that evening, after Cindy had gone home, Rebecca’s mom came into her room and sat on the bed.
“Let’s try out those new clothes you got,” Mom said.
Rebecca squealed with excitement and dumped out the bag of clothes. She went through the clothes one by one. First, she held up a pink dress.
“What a pretty dress,” Mom said. “That will fit you perfectly.” She hung the dress in the closet.
Next they looked at a pair of blue pants.
“Hmm, they look a little small,” Mom said. “Let’s give those to your younger sister.”
Then Rebecca picked up a blue tank top.
“This is so cute,” Rebecca said, holding it up. “Can I wear it?”
“It’s a cute color,” Mom said, “but I don’t think you should wear it.”
“Why not?” Rebecca asked. “It will be great to wear this summer.”
“It’s not modest,” Mom said.
Rebecca thought for a moment. “What does it mean to be modest?” she asked.
“Being modest means dressing in a way that shows Heavenly Father we respect our bodies,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, it’s so cute. And Cindy used to wear it!” Rebecca said.
Mom patted Rebecca on the shoulder and said, “I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”
Rebecca sighed. She knew it was important to listen to her mom, but she really liked the shirt. So when her mom left the room, Rebecca hid the tank top in her drawer underneath some other clothes. She thought maybe she could wear it one day when Mom wasn’t home.
A few weeks later when Rebecca was cleaning out her dresser, she found the blue tank top.
She pulled it out. Once again, she saw how cute it was. But she remembered what her mom had said and decided that she would rather show respect for her body than wear something immodest.
She went to talk to her mom. “Mom, remember that tank top Cindy gave me?” Rebecca asked as she held it out. “Well, I kept it hidden in my drawer. But I decided I don’t want to wear it. I would rather please Heavenly Father.”
Mom smiled and gave Rebecca a hug. “I’m glad you chose the right,” she said.

I recently learned about the experiences of a man in Zimbabwe named Sabbath Sibanda Maturure. Born in Shurugwe in what he describes as “an ordinary African hut,” he was the seventh of eleven children. Like three of his sisters, he was crippled from birth. At an early age he blamed God for his handicap and refused to attend the Christian church to which his parents were devoted.
When he was seven, he and his sisters were sent far away from home to attend a school for the disabled. Lonely for his mother, whom he could visit only once a year, he became even more bitter. “Life was terrible,” he remembers. “There was just no hope.”
His bitterness grew when his only two friends—his mother and another handicapped child at the school—died. “There really wasn’t anything left for me—not one ray of hope anywhere. Life was completely without meaning. God was totally unfair and not worthy of my worship or respect.”
But after he was befriended by some Christians who urged him to read the Bible, his heart began to soften. As the years passed, he found work, was married, and had two daughters.
In July 1985 a man who “looked honest, humble, and loving” came to his home and introduced himself as Elder Boyd Lake. Elder and Sister Lake, a missionary couple from Oakley, Utah, had met Sabbath’s wife, Susan, at work, and she had asked them to visit her husband. “Anything that is about Christ makes our lives more sweet,” says Sabbath, “so I welcomed Elder and Sister Lake to our home.” Their message sounded so good that the Maturures invited the Lakes to meet all of their friends at the handicapped center where they worked. And Sabbath and Susan began studying the Book of Mormon.
After several visits from the missionaries, Sabbath became ill. But a priesthood blessing helped to restore his health. He was impressed by the power of the priesthood and the teachings about home evening, fast offering, tithing, and chastity. “I also learned about the eternal family, whereby if we believe and are worthy, we can be married in the temple and be sealed forever as husband and wife and family.”
On 2 August 1986, Sabbath was baptized by the branch president, and Elder Lake baptized Susan and one of their daughters. “What joy we received in our home to be in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—a church that the Lord himself restored!” says Sabbath. Three weeks later, a third daughter, Helen Happiness, was born. (The baby was named in honor of Sister Lake, whose first name is Helen.)
For the Maturure family, Elder and Sister Lake were instruments in the hands of the Lord in working a mighty miracle. How could the Lakes have guessed before they left their home in Utah that they would have such a rich experience in faraway Zimbabwe?

“Have a good time!” Julie’s mother called as she leaned on her cane and waved.
“I will!” Julie said, waving back.
Today was field day at school, which meant there would be races and awards. It was usually an exciting day, but Julie was distracted as she walked to school. She kept thinking about how much Mom had changed over the past year. Mom used to run and play and even taught Julie to stand on her head! But ever since getting sick, Mom couldn’t walk very well.
“It’s OK,” Mom usually said. “Watching you run and play makes me happy.”
Julie wanted to bring home an award ribbon for Mom so badly she could hardly stand it! There was only one problem—she was the smallest one in the class and didn’t usually win at sporty things.
Maybe if I pray, Heavenly Father will help me, Julie thought. As she prayed, a warm feeling filled her heart. She smiled. It felt like the Spirit was telling her that field day was going to be great.
At school the students were gathering into groups and teams.
“Hey, Julie! Come try this,” Sophia yelled from the long-jump line.
When it was her turn, Julie took a deep breath and ran as fast as she could. She pushed off the start line and felt the wind whip her hair as she sailed over the sand. She landed with a thump and remembered to fall forward.
“That’s the farthest I’ve ever jumped!” Julie said to Sophia when she saw her score. It wasn’t far enough to earn a ribbon, but Julie felt good inside, like she shouldn’t give up.
Soon another friend, Evie, was calling to them.
“Come try the 50-yard dash!”
Julie lined up next to lots of other kids. When the starter yelled, “Go!” Julie pumped her legs as fast as she could.
Wow, I’m running really fast! Julie thought. She came in fourth place—not quite fast enough to earn a ribbon. Julie felt a flicker of worry. But there was still time for one more event.
Julie and her friends decided to try the relay race. After Sophia ran around the track, Julie stretched out her hand for the baton.
I think we’re in first place! Julie thought as she took the baton and ran. But as she handed the baton to Evie, another runner pulled ahead.
The good feelings Julie had faded away. Still breathing hard, she walked to a nearby hill and plopped down on the grass. She wrapped her arms around her knees and listened to the cheers of students and teachers as the race ended.
Julie thought about her morning prayer. She thought about all of the times she had felt good during the day. She was glad the races had been fun. But she also felt sad that she hadn’t earned a ribbon.
Suddenly something surprising happened. Those good feelings started filling her heart again! It was like the Spirit was telling her that she should keep hoping for good things to happen. Julie smiled.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Look what we got!” Evie squealed as she held up two ribbons. “One’s for you. Our team came in second in the relay!”
Julie rubbed the shiny satin between her fingers and looked at the gold letters gleaming in the sunlight. She said a silent prayer thanking Heavenly Father for helping her feel good throughout the day.
Then she jumped up. She couldn’t wait to tell Mom all about her feel-good field day!

Wangu, of the Kibuyu tribe, liked the hot dust of the road squeezing up between his brown toes. The African plain around him was spotted with many colored flowers, showing against the yellow grasses waving in the gentle breeze. Nandi flame trees flashed in the glaring sunshine. Wangu felt happy. He was sure something good was going to happen to him. Already he had found his bwana’s (white-man boss’s) lost cow and now he could see the tops of the huts in his shamba (village).
Wangu turned to pull on the lead rope to make the cow walk faster, and then he saw the bicycle. It was in the ditch beside the road and almost covered with thorn bushes. Wangu jumped into the ditch and with his panga (machete-like knife) he chopped the thorn bushes away. Then he dragged the bicycle up to the road.
It was a very old bicycle. Both its wheels were dented and it had many broken spokes. Its chain was stiff with rust. Some bwana threw it away a long time ago, he thought, but it was a bicycle and to own a bicycle was something Wangu had dreamed about.
Wangu had trouble leading the cow and carrying the bicycle, but he struggled on. A little farther along the road he stepped off into the grass, walking toward his shamba. He heard the neighing of an unseen zebra and the roar of simba (lion) a long distance away. The sounds did not disturb Wangu because he was thinking deeply about his four sons. They were a year or two apart in age, starting at age nine. He thought how much each boy would like a bicycle.
When Wangu entered the village his oldest son was the first to greet him. “What will you do with the broken bicycle, Father?” he asked.
His other three sons quickly gathered around him as he answered. “I will make it whole again so that it will be useful.”
“It is a beautiful bicycle,” his nine-year-old son said wistfully.
“I will make it even more beautiful,” Wangu promised, putting the broken bicycle in his thingira, a special hut where his wife could not enter. Then he took the cow to its place among his employer’s cattle.
Wangu began work on the bicycle by taking it apart. For help in understanding how to do it and to borrow tools, he went to the nearby mission.
Each month Wangu took part of the shillingi (English money) his bwana paid him for the work he did, and walked the seven miles to the ducca (general store) and bought new parts for the bicycle.
Repairing the bicycle was slow work, but for Wangu it was a work of joy. As he worked, his thoughts kept wandering to the worth of his four sons. He thought of how proud he was of them and of how fine and helpful they were to him.
Just before he finished working on the bicycle, he decided that his sons deserved to have it. But he couldn’t give it to all of them. Wangu knew that if he did that, the bicycle would cause many quarrels. He must give it to just one boy. He wondered how he could do that without hurting the feelings of the others.
Wangu painted the bicycle red and yellow; and while he waited for the paint to dry, he tried hard to think of a way to give it to just one of his sons. The answer came to him the night before he would take the bicycle out of his thingira and show it to all the people in the village.
The next morning Wangu wheeled the sparkling, newly painted bicycle out onto the hard-packed dirt in the center of the circle of beehive-shaped huts made out of wattle and mud. The people came running from all directions, shouting words of praise for the bicycle. Wangu waited for quiet and until his sons stood in front of him. As he looked at them he thought of how well they cared for his sheep and goats.
“It is my wish to give this bicycle to one of my sons, and I have found a way to do it fairly,” Wangu announced. “The people at the mission have taught us to write our names and some of the white man’s words.” Then he spoke directly to his sons. “Go and get a calabash (clay bowl shaped like a gourd), four pieces of paper, and a pencil.”
The boys left in an excited rush. Wangu waited, beaming under the admiration of the people. He waited until he became impatient. It seemed that his sons were taking much too long. When they finally arrived on the run he frowned at them.
“You will each write your name on a piece of paper, fold it so the name cannot be seen, and drop it into the calabash,” he told them. “Then I will lift out a name and whoever owns the name owns the bicycle.”
When this was done Wangu took the calabash and shook it. He pulled a paper from it. Wangu was the name written on the paper.
“This is the wrong name,” he said gruffly.
With his fingers in the calabash he stirred the papers around. Then he quickly took another one and unfolded it slowly. Wangu was also written on that paper. In a fast movement he grabbed the remaining two papers in the calabash and on each one was written the name Wangu.
All his sons had wanted him to have the bicycle. Tears filled Wangu’s eyes and his heart seemed almost to burst with the great love he felt for his sons.

“First,” Grandpa began, “you have to imagine the place that I call ‘the old country,’ the place where I was born. My village wasn’t a town as you know it, but a small cluster of cottages and shops built along seldom-traveled dirt roads. Everywhere there were poor, shabbily dressed people. Why, they would’ve thought that I was a king if they could have seen me dressed like this.” And he snapped the strap of his bib overalls for emphasis.
“And speaking of kings, the leader of the old country taxed and imprisoned the people unfairly, sometimes forcing them to join his private army. Because of this, many people began to talk against him. They gathered at secret meetings where they talked of ways to overthrow him. The ruler knew that they hated him, so periodically he sent his soldiers throughout the country to show his strength and to question the people, hoping to discover his enemies.
“In my village every family, no matter how poor, had a flag because a flag was considered protection against the soldiers. If a house had a flag hanging from it, it was not as likely to be searched.
“I have a picture in my mind,” Grandpa Max continued, “of my last day in the old country. I was only four years old, but it was a day that I will never forget. My parents had been packing all night, loading our wagon with all our possessions. We were going to make our escape early in the morning.
“The next morning, of all days, the king’s soldiers rode into town to make one of their searches. Our closest neighbor came to warn us.
“Mother had us take off our traveling clothes and put on our everyday work clothes so that we wouldn’t look suspicious. Father pulled the wagon around to the back of the house and hid it in the trees. “Suddenly Mother remembered the flag. Nearly everything inside our small home had been packed into the wagon, and though we searched frantically, we couldn’t find the flag.
“I remember that that’s when I began to cry. Far down the road I could see all our neighbors’ houses draped with the hated flags. Hurriedly my father dumped a bundle of linens on the ground. Rummaging through it, he found the flag. He raced around to the front of the house and hung it up. That picture of my father hanging the flag is my last memory of the old country.”

I had gone to church every Sunday for a year. I had attended seminary and Young Men ever since my baptism. I had followed the commandments to the letter, and still no luck. My family had still not joined the Church.
I had started with the easy things, leaving missionary pamphlets on the coffee table and other Church literature and videos in strategic places. Even the bathroom looked like the first floor of the London National History Museum, and still no luck.
They had gone to church meetings a few times, when they knew it was important to me, like my first church talk and, of course, my baptism. They never seemed interested, and I didn’t want to pressure them. It seemed hopeless.
The Rigby family in the ward decided to join the effort. At family home evening, we submitted the game plan. I would distract my family with a volley of church talks and my seminary graduation, which they would have to come to. Sister Rigby and the missionaries would sneak around the back with discussions and the Ensign magazine.
Well, that was the plan, anyway. They came to my talks and to my graduation. They didn’t seem to take in what I was saying in my carefully structured talks. They ignored the Ensign like all the rest of the Church materials I brought home. And they skillfully deflected the missionaries with “sorry-my-son’s-not-in” karate.
I had had enough. I jumped straight in and said, “Mother, will you listen to the missionaries and think about joining the Church?” I braced myself for rejection. My mother looked at me and said in a matter-of-fact way, “Of course I will, darling. Can the missionaries come on Thursday when your dad is home from work?”
I was shocked, but it happened. We’ve had two baptisms and we’re working on the third. I hear you saying, What’s the moral, Paul? Well, it’s basically don’t be afraid to ask. Sometimes great things can happen if you only ask.

Many of us are descendants of hardy pioneers, and we feel grateful and inspired by their faith-promoting examples of sacrifice. My great-grandmother, Margaret McNeil Ballard, recorded in her journal a pioneer experience of sacrifice that occurred when she was between nine and eleven years of age. [She had come from Scotland by boat with her family.] She wrote:
“After landing we planned to go west to Utah. … The company we were assigned to had gone on ahead and as my mother was anxious for me to go with them she strapped my little brother James on my back with a shawl. He was only four years old and … quite sick with the measles; but I took him since my mother had all she could do to care for the other children. I hurried and caught up with the company, traveling with them all day. That night a kind lady helped me take my brother off my back. I sat up and held him on my lap with the shawl wrapped around him, alone, all night. He was a little better in the morning. The people in the camp were very good to us and gave us a little fried bacon and some bread for breakfast.
“We traveled this way for about a week, before my brother and I were united with our family again.”

Jackie didn’t like Mrs. Baxter very much.
When Jackie and her friend Tara played in the street, Mrs. Baxter shouted at them to be quiet. She chased Tara’s kitten away with her newspaper. And when Jackie’s Frisbee landed in the grumpy neighbor’s window box, she wouldn’t give the Frisbee back.
So when Jackie and Tara saw Mrs. Baxter come out of the grocery store and something flutter from her open purse, they didn’t run to pick it up for her.
“She’s mean,” Tara said.
“The meanest lady in town!” agreed Jackie. “She wouldn’t even listen when I said I was sorry that the Frisbee broke her flowers.”
They watched Mrs. Baxter put her sack of groceries on the hood of her car and rummage in her purse. She pulled out her keys, unlocked the car, put the groceries in the trunk, and drove away.
“She doesn’t know she dropped anything!” Tara exclaimed, watching the big black car turn the corner.
Jackie ran to see what Mrs. Baxter had dropped. “It’s a five-dollar bill!”
“Too bad for her!” Tara said. “Finders, keepers—losers, weepers!”
“We can’t keep it!” Jackie looked at her friend in surprise. “We saw her drop it. We have to give it back!”
“What about your Frisbee that she kept?” Tara said. “She owes you for a new one! It isn’t stealing!”
“Wellll …” Jackie looked at President Lincoln’s picture on the five-dollar bill. He seemed to be looking back at her. Quickly she stuffed the money into her pocket. “I guess it wouldn’t be stealing if I get a new Frisbee with it. Come on, let’s look for one.”
There was a sports store nearby. The girls squeezed past a display of gleaming bikes and headed toward the Frisbees.
“I wish she’d dropped a five-hundred-dollar bill!” whispered Tara. “Then we could both get new bikes!”
That would really be stealing, Jackie thought. Keeping five dollars is a lot different from keeping five hundred dollars! Or is it? She tried to ignore the tight feeling in her stomach. Of course it wasn’t stealing—Mrs. Baxter owed it to her.
“How about this one?” Tara held up a fluorescent pink Frisbee.
Jackie put her hand in her pocket, twisting the five-dollar bill around her fingers. She thought about President Lincoln. He was known as “Honest Abe.” What would he think of her if she spent the money?
Tara was waiting for her answer. “I’m not getting a Frisbee,” Jackie said. “It’s Mrs. Baxter’s money.”
“Wait—”
Tara tried to say something, but Jackie didn’t listen. She knew that her friend was saying that it was stupid to give the money back.
Hurrying out of the store, Jackie unlocked her bike and rode off. As she turned into her street, she saw Mrs. Baxter climbing the two front steps to her apartment building, struggling to get out her key with one hand while still clutching the grocery sack.
Jackie hesitated. She’ll probably just yell at me, she thought. Maybe Tara’s right.
Mrs. Baxter was inside by the time Jackie set her bike down and walked slowly toward the door. As she passed the window box, she noticed the broken geraniums. They had been propped up on sticks and tied in place with green yarn. Mrs. Baxter may not like children and kittens, but she loves her flowers.
Jackie stared at the doorbell. Slowly she lifted her finger and pushed. Was that thumping sound her heart pounding, or was it Mrs. Baxter’s footsteps? It was Tara running up the path to stand beside her. Jackie smiled at her friend.
The door opened two inches and Mrs. Baxter peered out from behind the security chain. “What do you want?”
“You dropped this by the supermarket.” Jackie held out the five-dollar bill. As she passed it through the gap in the door, Mrs. Baxter grabbed it, then slammed the door.
She didn’t even thank me for returning the money! She’ll probably always chase the kitten and shout at us and keep our Frisbees, Jackie thought.
Jackie still didn’t like Mrs. Baxter. But she liked herself. Mrs. Baxter may not like me, but I’m glad that I returned the money. She was sure that Heavenly Father was pleased with her, too, and that was what mattered.

That upward reach, drawn from a knowledge of divine doctrines, transforms souls! May I share an illustration with you? Once, Sister Nelson and I were invited to the humble home of Polynesian Saints who had relatively recently joined the Church. By walking carefully on wooden planks, we approached their house, built on wooden piles emerging from the floor of the sea. We climbed a ladder to enter their little one-room dwelling. As we were invited to be seated on freshly woven grass mats, we could peek through holes in the floor and view sea water below. That home was starkly devoid of furniture, except for a used sewing machine provided by sisters of the Relief Society. But the love and warmth of this special family were apparent as our visit continued.

“We would like to sing for you,” the father said through an interpreter. He put one arm about his wife and the other about the children, as did his wife. Five little ones, dressed in newly sewn clothing, joined their parents in singing songs the father had composed.

Concluding, he said: “These songs express our feelings of deep gratitude. Before we joined the Church, we had so little. Now we have so much!”

While wiping tears from our moistened cheeks, Sister Nelson and I looked at each other, comprehending that the gospel brings spiritual wealth which may bear little relation, at first, to tangible abundance. Conversely, people with plenty can be spiritually poor. Yet the Lord is concerned for them all!

Last Sunday, Ruby and I attended a sacrament meeting of a ward here in central Salt Lake. The meeting was most interesting because in that ward there is some affluence as well as people who are living in halfway houses. Just before the testimony meeting, a young lady walked up to the bishop on the stand, holding a little baby in her arms, wanting the baby to receive a blessing. The bishop stepped down and took the little baby, and the baby was blessed.
Later on during the testimony meeting, a little seven-year-old boy, with his five-year-old sister by the hand, walked up to the pulpit. He helped fix a little stool there for her to stand on, his five-year-old sister, and he helped her as she bore her testimony. And as she would falter just a little, he would lean over and whisper in her ear, this little loving seven-year-old brother.
After she finished, he stood on the stool, and she stood watching him, and he bore his testimony. She had that sweet expression on her face as she watched him. He was her older brother, but you could see that family love and relationship with those two little children. He stepped down from the stool, took her by the hand, and they walked back down to take their seat.

He smiled as he reminded his daughter of one of her favorite rides at the amusement park when she was younger. “Remember how much time you used to spend on that large spinning turntable in the fun house? You and all the other children would scramble toward the center and try to hold your places as the huge wheel spun.”
“Oh, yes,” the daughter replied. “Once that wheel started spinning, the kids closest to the edge went sliding off just like that cotton ball, and the ones who managed to hold their position near the center stayed on.”
Her eyes sparkled as she remembered how she would slip and slide on the big wheel. “I tried my best to work my way from the edge toward the center, but it was a real struggle. I had to crawl and apply great traction with my hands to pull myself up toward the center. And if that weren’t hard enough, I always had to be on guard for those who didn’t make it, because they usually grabbed someone else as they spun off and tried to take them with them.”
“In a way, life is like that,” her father explained. “There are struggles, and people going downward sometimes tend to drag those nearby down with them. We, on the other hand, are trying to climb against those forces that are pulling us down.
“Now back to your question. How far you can go as you enjoy the companionship of your friends depends on where you want to go. If you want to go up and onward, you behave one way. If you want to go down and out, you behave another way.”
“I want to go up, Dad,” she replied without hesitation. “I want to reach my goals.”
Since his daughter had recently attended a lecture by a member of a team that tried to conquer Mt. Everest, the father could not resist another comparison. “If that’s the direction you want to go, let’s take some lessons from those expert mountain climbers you met. What do you remember most about their experiences?”
“Oh, I learned a lot, but the most important thing I remember is their advance planning. They anticipated everything that could possibly happen and were prepared with decisions made well in advance in response to whatever they might encounter.
“Their teamwork was really impressive to me too. As they had tremendous hardships to overcome and heights to climb, they linked themselves together with ropes. The ropes were attached to something solid above as they pulled themselves up. Occasionally even the other people to whom they were linked became their anchors. We saw photographs showing one person dangling in midair while being tethered to people he trusted both above and below. Yet he didn’t fall because of his ties to other people!
“They also maintained excellent communications. Even though they might have been temporarily separated, they were always in good communication. It seemed that the closer they were to potential danger, the more they leaned toward the center.”
After hearing his daughter’s report, the father responded, “Did anyone ever ask the question ‘How close to the edge can I come?’”
“No! Quite the contrary. Their emphasis always seemed to be ‘How close to the center can I stay!’” Then, with a look of enlightenment, she replied, “Dad, now I am beginning to understand.”
The father continued, “Let’s apply these lessons to your question. One of the most important things you can do as you face the challenging climb of life is to plan in advance. You must know what pitfalls might befall you. No matter what your problem may be, you must decide in advance how you will react—what actions you will take—just like the mountain climbers on Mt. Everest.
“Remember you are part of a team that is pulling for you. You are connected by unseen tethers of love to people who pray and pull for you daily, even though those ties are not as visible as the ropes of the mountain climbers. Your teammates even extend into the world beyond. Your ancestors are concerned for you and supporting you. Relatives, teachers in school and in church, and good friends always try to lift. If you ever have acquaintances who are trying to pull you with them on their downward drift, know that these people are not truly your friends at all. Real friends never pull you down; they always lift!
“Communication in your life is as important to you as it is for mountain climbers. That’s why I think you are so special for wanting to communicate with your father when you have such an important question. Just as receptive is your Heavenly Father, who appreciates your communications with him in prayer.
“Finally, when dangers do come, always look toward the center. Remember, your record player would not produce very good music if it were not for that rod in the center that anchors the record to the spinning disc. If you allow the world in which your activities revolve to be anchored centrally to the iron rod of the gospel, life’s music will be sweet for you.
“On this or any other important question you have, cling to the center. Know what your loved ones would do in a similar circumstance. Think what the Lord would counsel you to do. If you are firmly and securely anchored to the iron rod, which is the word of God, you’ll be safe in your activities. The wiles of your whirling world and the winds of temptation will not spin you off but will find you safely rooted centrally toward your quest for salvation and exaltation.
“God has great blessings in store for you. You will attain the heights that he has placed within your grasp. Ultimately he will reward you through your obedience. Listen to his promise: If you are faithful, you ‘shall inherit thrones, kingdoms, principalities, and powers, dominions, … and a continuation of the seeds forever and ever’ (D&C 132:19). This, my daughter, is what I want for you.”
The lovely daughter thanked her father with a warm hug, grateful for his love and understanding. She now knew that she no longer was really interested in the answer to her question. She didn’t want to know how close to the edge she could go. She was now determined to stay close to the center, where the great rewards of fulfillment in life are found.

The youth of the American Servicemen’s District of Okinawa had no idea that Brother Toshimitsu Kina’s broken leg would lead them to fighting off nasty snakes and wielding big knives, but that’s exactly what happened when they volunteered to help him with his sugar cane harvest.
The crop had to be brought in, so the district members took to the fields, learning how to cut the cane using “kamas,” and how to avoid “Habu” snakes. But would you believe they had a great time doing it? “It’s hard work, but it feels good,” said Leslie Sousley, 15.
“This harvest is pretty fun because we’re helping someone, we get to eat sugar cane, and it’s a new experience,” said Troy Baker, 13. What could be sweeter?

After school Doug dashed home and pounded up the steps into his family’s new apartment. He could hardly wait for the baseball game to start at the park.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” asked his mother as he sped from his room, carrying his baseball glove and aluminum bat.
“Across the street to play ball,” Doug said. Eric, from one of the other apartments, had told him that a group of boys got together after school to play baseball. Doug hoped he could make some friends in the new neighborhood.
“I want to go, too!” Doug’s younger brother, Jimmy, shouted as he dashed into the room.
“You know what’ll happen, Jimmy. Why don’t you stay here and play Baseball Master with Dad?” A game board version of real baseball, Baseball Master was won by a player’s knowledge of baseball strategy. Jimmy loved it.
“I don’t know about that,” called their father. “Jimmy’s too good for me.”
It was true. At Baseball Master Jimmy could outhit, outsteal, and outscore almost anyone.
Doug glanced at his watch and hustled off. He hoped that Jimmy would take his advice. It would save them both a lot of embarrassment.
Jimmy didn’t. Doug cringed as Jimmy trotted up to the group of boys in the park and asked to play. Jimmy looked over at Doug and grinned, but Doug ignored him.
Doug ended up playing second base for one team, and Jimmy played right field for the other team. Doug hit a home run his first time at bat. Jimmy struck out. Doug made his catches look easy at second base. Jimmy missed every ball that came to him in right field.
Doug felt sorry for his brother when Jimmy was yanked from the field by his team captain and replaced with another boy. Doug wished Jimmy would go home, but he didn’t. Jimmy stood behind the backstop, cheering for everything his team did.
When Doug hit his third home run to win the game. Eric and the other boys from the apartments slapped him on the back and chose him to be one of the two captains for the next game.
Doug heard some of the boys on the other team complaining, “We might have won if that clumsy kid hadn’t shown up.” Doug avoided looking at Jimmy. What if they knew that that “clumsy kid” was my brother? he thought.
Doug played catch with his new friends for a while and then walked home.
Jimmy was sitting on the apartment stairs, his head down. “Doug, how come I’m no good?” he asked.
Doug shrugged. Jimmy had always been awkward. The doctors blamed it on poor hand/eye coordination. There wasn’t much Jimmy could do about it. It was a shame, too, because he loved baseball. And he knew more about it than anyone else Doug knew.
“After supper I’ll help you with your catching and hitting,” Doug offered.
After eating, they headed down the apartment steps toward the park. Suddenly Doug spotted Eric and a couple of his new friends on the baseball field. He froze. “Um, Jimmy, let’s go play out behind the apartments. It’s too crowded over there.”
“I saw those boys,” Jimmy mumbled as they turned around. “You’re ashamed of me. That’s why you didn’t talk to me at the game today, isn’t it?”
Doug didn’t answer. He worked with Jimmy until it was nearly dark, without much success. “Why don’t you be our cheerleader?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I want to be part of the game.” He looked up at Doug as they walked back to the apartment. “Are you going to pick me on your team tomorrow?”
Doug was silent. How can I pick Jimmy? he wondered. What would the other guys think?
Before bed that night Doug walked past Jimmy’s bedroom and heard him praying. “Heavenly Father, why can’t I play sports? Why am I so uncoordinated?”
Doug wondered the same thing. Why did Jimmy have to sit home studying baseball while everyone else was out playing it? It didn’t seem fair. There had to be something Jimmy could do on a team besides cheering.
In his room Doug prayed about it. But no answer came to him.
The next day Doug waited at the park as the other boys arrived. He’d already decided which ones he wanted. They’d be the best. Maybe after choosing them, he’d pick Jimmy.
When Jimmy joined them, pounding his glove, several guys groaned.
Eric poked Doug in the ribs. “Who is that kid anyway? Do you know him?”
Doug pretended that he didn’t hear Eric, but it made him feel strange inside. Doug didn’t like the feeling. He realized he’d been acting ashamed of Jimmy because Jimmy had a problem with his coordination. That wasn’t Jimmy’s fault.
“He’s my brother!” Doug said loudly. “And he probably knows more about baseball than any of us.”
The other boys stared at him.
Eric snickered. “Him?”
“You don’t have to be able to hit home runs and make dazzling catches to know how the game is played.”
“All right,” said Eric impatiently. “Let’s get the game started. Pick, Doug.”
Doug looked over the group, but he couldn’t seem to decide. Every time he saw Jimmy’s eager face, his picks got all jumbled around in his head. Sure, he knew the guys who could hit, but hits didn’t always win games. Sometimes strategy did. Suddenly he knew the answer to his prayer.
“My first pick is Jimmy,” Doug announced, pointing to his brother.
“He can’t play,” someone said.
“Not to play,” Doug said, as Jimmy proudly scurried to his side, “but to be my manager and to plan strategy.”
There were some laughs. But when Doug’s team won the game by ten runs, no one was laughing. Jimmy’s strategy had worked.
Eric was chosen as one of the captains for the next game. Doug saw him eyeing Jimmy. “I already know who my first pick will be,” Eric said.
Doug smiled at Jimmy. “So do I.”

I want to tell you an experience about my BYU days. You didn’t know I was a BYU student, did you? When the time came for me to begin my schooling here, I settled all the arrangements and came on the train from Arizona up to Salt Lake. From Salt Lake I took the inter-urban railroad to Provo and to the school I planned to attend. As I got off this inter-urban and got my suitcases about me, I looked around and saw a great white building on the hill in the distance. I thought, “Well, that’s the BYU, all right.” So I gathered my things together, and I walked all that distance from Center Street up to this white building that was so attractive. When I got close to the building, I saw many men in their overalls working in the yards. So I walked on up straight into the building, and got me a drink at the water fountain, but at about this time I realized I was in the wrong place. So I turned around and went out the door and came down into town where I found people who directed me to the BYU campus. At any rate, that was the first of my BYU days. After I finally found the school, I remember that we went to class for one week, and then we went to the peach orchards for the second and third and fourth weeks. But by that time, the man in charge of the military in my home town sent me a telegram from Safford, Arizona, and said, “Please get down here in a hurry. Your turn for the Army has come.” So I rushed back to Safford to take care of my responsibility as it was outlined for me.