Gospel Story Finder

Within two years, I had grown to six-foot-three which made me attractive as a football player. I had always hoped to be a quarterback and was named the starter as a sophomore. This caused a lot of resentment among the juniors and seniors, and I ended up playing on a team with a bunch of guys who hated me. It made it very hard to succeed. I knew if I was going to play college football, I had to get out of that town.
After my junior year, I moved to St. Anthony (Idaho) to live with my sister and attend high school there. I knew I would be living in a Mormon community, where a lot of the kids at school were Mormon. I thought all my problems were finally behind me. It didn’t work out that way. Again I was the new kid on the block. I immediately tried out for the football team and was named the starting quarterback. That was great for me, but I beat out the guy who had started at that position the year before.
Nobody seemed happy about the new competition, and hardly anybody was friendly to me during the football season. When I finally broke into their circle and made friends, the season was over.
Since St. Anthony is close to Rexburg, home of Ricks College, I decided I would try to walk on Ricks’s football team. The coaches there wouldn’t give me a scholarship, so I practiced with them for a couple of weeks hoping to prove myself. When they still wouldn’t give me a scholarship, I had to quit. I just didn’t have enough money to pay tuition.
I now had a decision to make. Some guys I knew from St. Anthony told me about a good-paying job up in the woods cutting trees. Instead, I told them I was going to stay in Rexburg and get a job there so I could lift weights every night at the college. I told them I was going to play football the next year. They just laughed and thought I was crazy. After making the decision to stay, I never regretted not going with my friends.
During that year, I worked at a job throwing 50- and 100-pound grain sacks for nine hours a day. My pay was $3.60 an hour. After I got off work, I’d go down to the weight room and lift weights until ten at night. Everybody kept telling me I was crazy, and even my family questioned what I was doing. My family still supported me, but I think I was the only person in the world who thought I could make it—well, besides my girlfriend, Roxi, whom I later married.
That next year I earned a scholarship and played for Ricks. By this time I weighed 230 pounds and had switched from quarterback to defensive lineman. After Ricks, I had coaches from Ohio State, Alabama, Georgia Tech, Arizona, Kansas, Texas, Texas Tech, and BYU recruiting me. I chose BYU, and I’m glad I did.
After my senior season with the Cougars, I knew I was going to be drafted by an NFL team, and it turned out to be the Cincinnati Bengals. By the end of my second season I was starting in the Super Bowl. In my third year with the Bengals, I led the team in sacks. Everything seemed great. But for some reason, at the beginning of my fourth year, I was sitting on the bench.
It seemed the coaches wanted bigger guys playing the defensive line positions, leaving me to stand on the sidelines. I knew I wasn’t in Cincinnati’s long-range plans, and sure enough I was cut toward the end of fall camp. The 1991 season was about ready to begin and I was out of football. All the other NFL teams had their rosters finalized, so I had to wait and hope a team would pick me up.
This was another terrible period in my life. I knew I was still good enough to play, yet I wasn’t being given the chance. A few weeks into the season the Seattle Seahawks seemed interested in signing me to a contract. Instead, they took another guy, which was one of the hardest blows of my career.
I came back to my home in Utah not knowing what to do or what was going to happen. I wasn’t giving up, but I was really down. To take my mind off my situation, I went to play golf by myself. It was fall, in the middle of the week, and nobody was there playing. I was out on the back nine all by myself crying and thinking about what I was going to do. I stopped my cart and had a word of prayer.
When I finished, I went from tears and this distraught feeling to the most wonderful, calm feeling that told me everything was going to be okay. That Sunday, I got a phone call from the Washington Redskins. They told me they had some injured players and needed a replacement.
It was amazing. One day I was crying, and the next thing I knew I was playing for one of the best organizations in the NFL. I left behind the Cincinnati Bengals, who finished 3–13 in 1991, and went to the Redskins, who went on to win the Super Bowl. I finished my first Redskin season with 12 tackles, three quarterback hurries, and one and a half quarterback sacks. Plus I earned a Super Bowl ring. Things couldn’t have turned out better.
I’ve learned much in my life through all these experiences. The greatest lesson is that in order to know happiness, you have to know sorrow and pain. That’s why Nephi’s testimony means a lot to me. If you always put God first, work hard, and hold up your end, you’ll be led through those difficult times.
It’s sure worked for me.

I’ve had many problems with my temper. I used to yell at people because I thought they were such idiots. My temper had a very short fuse. The way I overcame my “short fuse” was by reading the Book of Mormon, writing my feelings down on paper, and making a conscious effort to change. After about a week, I could tell that I wasn’t getting mad at people nearly as often.
Elder John O. Leyer, 19Indianapolis, Indiana

Mingan, the young Mongol boy, fastened his padded collar closely beneath his chin. The icy winds from the plains whistled around the great felt tents and drove dust into his face. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw a ball of dust rolling across the plain toward camp and heard a faint jingle of bells. The cloud grew larger and resolved into a rider, his wide belt set thickly with bells, leaning close to his mount. It was a messenger from Kublai Khan!
Turning, Mingan lifted the flap of the nearest tent. “Father!” he shouted. “A messenger from the great Khan approaches!”
Prince Catu, Mingan’s father, pushed past him and shouted orders. Men hurried from their tents. The horseman, with a clatter and a jangle, slid from his snorting mount and handed Catu a scroll. A waiting herdsman seized the bridle of the messenger’s lathered animal and led the horse away to shelter.
Mingan leaned forward. “What does the Kahn say?”
Catu smiled. “We are honored! The new court commissioner will arrive today. Kublai Khan asks us to receive this new envoy with all courtesies and to supply him with an escort to Singui. I have heard good things about this man. They call him Marco Polo.”
“Is he a great warrior like the Khan, Father?”
“No, he is a fair-skinned agent from the kingdoms in the West. He has found great favor at court.”
“But aren’t all great men warriors?” Mingan asked. “The Khan surrounds himself with only great men.”
“Part of what you say is true, my son. The Khan does bring the most able to his court, but not all great men are warriors. You will understand when you meet Marco Polo.”
“He cannot be much if he has not been trained as a warrior,” Mingan muttered as he turned away.
“Wait, my son,” Catu said. “I will need escorts to accompany our honored guest to Singui. You will be one of them.”
“But, Father,” Mingan protested, “you promised I could go hunting with you tomorrow!”
“There will be other hunting trips.”
“But I wanted to show you what a good rider and marksman I am.”
Catu smiled. “I send you with Marco Polo because I know your skills. Now go. Tell your mother to prepare a feast to greet the new envoy.”
Mingan, full of disappointment, slowly headed for the tent. Now it would be many months before he could join the hunters. The journey to Singui would seem long when one had to jog beside a scrawny little man from the West. There would be no racing one’s pony and standing in the stirrups to shoot arrows at moving targets and no practicing turns at full speed—turns that could surprise and defeat an enemy. By the time the lookout sighted a thin dustline approaching, Mingan wished he had never heard of Marco Polo.
The dusty caravan drew up before the felt tents, and the riders dismounted. All the men were dressed in the padded winter clothing of the Mongols. Not until Mingan came closer and saw the fur flaps turned back from their faces could he distinguish between Marco and his companions. The face of this Westerner, bronzed like the rest, was young and smiling. His eager round eyes, resting for a second on Mingan, were warm and friendly. Marco laughed as he pushed back a lock of his curly black hair. How can any man laugh after the grueling journey across the plains? Mingan wondered.
Catu beckoned to Mingan as he said, “Worthy Commissioner, this is Mingan, my firstborn. He will be among the escorts who accompany you to Singui.”
Marco smiled and in the Mongol tongue replied, “I feel honored that the eldest son of Prince Catu will be with me.” He put an arm across Mingan’s shoulder. “He is a sturdy lad, and a fine horseman, I’ll wager.”
Mingan found himself warming to Marco. “I can handle a bow too.”
“Fine!” Marco said. “I shall have need of your skills to keep us in game between here and Singui.”
The feast was a happy one, much pleasanter than Mingan had anticipated. He found himself forgetting his disappointment over the postponed hunting trip as he listened to the many lively adventures Marco described to his attentive audience.
The wind had died down by dark. When the feasting was over, Mingan escorted Marco to his tent. The outside air struck Mingan’s face like an icy hand.
Marco stopped suddenly. “Look at those stars!” He swept his arm in an arc over his head. “Are they not brilliant tonight?”
“They are, indeed,” Mingan replied. “That one in the west is brightest of all.”
Marco spoke softly. “It would be tonight.” He sighed. “In my home in faraway Venice, it is Christmas Eve, a joyful night when everyone celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ.”
Mingan turned and asked, “Was this Jesus one of your great warriors?”
“No, but He was the greatest man who ever lived.”
“How can that be?” Mingan asked. “Great men are always warriors.”
“You are right, Mingan, but not warriors as you know them—men who ride fast and shoot well. Christ never touched a bow or spear, yet He fought evil and injustice. His sword was truth, and His shield was a deep faith in God. He believed in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, and in peace and goodwill to all men!”
Mingan looked thoughtful. “Those are fine ideas to believe in, like the sayings of our wise men. But how can we live them?”
Marco faced Mingan and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I wondered the same thing when I was your age, Mingan. I didn’t find the answer until I began to travel.”
“Did the great Kublai Khan reveal it to you?”
“Not the Khan alone, but many people—people like you.”
“Like me?”
Marco nodded. “As I met people and grew to know them, I found I understood and appreciated and respected them. It was easy to do unto them as I wished them to do unto me, and to feel goodwill toward all men.”
Mingan was quiet as he gazed at the bright star near the horizon. At last he spoke. “On the way to Singui, will you tell me more about Jesus Christ, whose birth is celebrated tonight?”
Marco seized Mingan’s hand in a warm grip. “Indeed I will! Good night, my friend, and Buon Natale to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘a good Christmas to you.’”
Mingan smiled. The trip to Singui would be long, but it promised much. Softly he repeated, “Buon Natale, Buon Natale.”

Each Tuesday, following devotional, I have the opportunity to gather with student leaders in our area for disciple leadership trainings. At one of these gatherings earlier this semester, I received an impression that I felt needed to be shared with the group. At that time we were wrestling with a shortage of volunteers in our Student Ambassador program. We only had 50 volunteers and needed 200 in a very short amount of time. At the end of the meeting I invited those present to do two things: First, pray daily to find individuals they could invite to participate in this program, and second, pray and ask Heavenly Father to bless others with the desire to serve and lead them to us. The next two weeks were filled with inspiring experiences for our students as they invited others one-by-one to act, or had the experience of others coming up to them and asking them how they could get involved. Our invitations and prayers were answered and our volunteer needs were met.

Last year when nine-year-old Joy Tippetts’ stake president called her to work in the Church’s name extraction program, she was delighted. For even before she was six years old, Joy had been helping her mother by sorting index cards and doing other simple tasks at the extraction center.
Joy has been trained to read Old German script, and according to Wilma Taylor, a Germanic language trainer, “Joy is unusually accurate and does fine work. She is fantastic for a ten-year-old!”
Microfilms of religious and civil records in Old German script that contain information about persons who have died are examined on a microfilm reader. (Information is extracted from microfilmed records from other countries besides Germany.) Joy then copies, or extracts, the deceased persons’ names, birthplaces, and the names of their parents and grandparents from the microfilm record, as well as their birth, christening, and death dates. This information is then written on index cards and sent with many other cards to a Latter-day Saint temple where the necessary ordinance work can be completed for those persons. The majority of names for which temple work for the dead is completed are supplied by the name extraction centers.
Joy and her mother, Roxanna, are best friends, and they look forward each week to the three hours that they spend together at the extraction center. Joy says that she “loves to read the records and figure out who the people are.”

The problem with Christmas this year was what to do about Grandma. She’s usually the one to solve the problems, not cause them, so everyone was caught off guard when she made her announcement at Thanksgiving dinner.
“I don’t want anyone to give me any Christmas presents this year,” she said. “I don’t need anything, and I’ve run out of places to put things.”
“Oh, Mom,” Dad said, “you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “All my cupboards and closets and drawers are full. My china cabinet hasn’t one square inch in which to put another knickknack, and I have enough perfume to last until the millennium. I’m going on a diet, so I don’t want any fattening food around. When I say I don’t want any gifts, I mean it!”
We all knew she did. When Grandma got that tone in her voice, no one argued. She wasn’t angry, just firm.
The hard part was that everyone wanted to give Grandma something. She was one of our favorite people. If you had a wild wish for something silly, or frivolous, or just plain dumb, you could count on her to understand and come through with it. If you needed something comfy or cozy or cute, she made it for you. No matter what lopsided, glue-splotched project you brought home from school, she loved it, praised it, and hung it on her bulletin board. She had as many friends as a dandelion has petals, and she was always doing fun and thoughtful things for them. Everyone remembered her at Christmas.
When she said, “No presents this year,” everyone in the family recognized that Grandma was going to be a problem. They met at our house to decide what to do about her. As the oldest of the brothers and sisters, Dad led the discussion. “What are we going to get Grandma for Christmas this year?” he asked.
She said she didn’t want anything,” Mom reminded him.
“Surely she didn’t mean that,” Aunt Gracie said.
“I think she did,” Uncle Bob said.
“We’ll just have to think of something she will want,” Dad insisted.
“Why?” asked Uncle Jack.
“Because it’s Christmas, that’s why,” Dad answered.
Aunt Nan thought she must have some secret desire. Uncle Bob didn’t think she’d ever tell, if she did.
“Then we’ll have to figure it out,” Dad challenged.
“I know what it is,” I said.
No one heard me. They talked about microwave ovens, clock radios, and electric skillets.
I tugged on Dad’s coat. “Dad,” I whispered, “I know what she’d like.”
“Don’t bother me now, Janie,” he whispered back. “I’m busy.”
They talked about this and that and everything else and didn’t come even close to guessing the right thing. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, so in the middle of the confusion, I shouted, “She wants a red wagon!” Then I ran from the room before anyone could get mad at me for interrupting. When I listened through the heater to see what they thought of my idea, everyone was laughing.
“Well that’s one way to make sure there is something for Janie to play with when she goes to Grandma’s house,” Aunt Gracie said.
I gave up and went to play.
Later, when the uncles and aunts had gone home, Dad asked me what was the big idea shouting out like I had.
“Because Grandma does want a red wagon.”
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“Because she always borrows mine,” I told him. “She comes over to get me to help her in her yard, and she says, ‘Can we use your wagon?’ and we put it in the back of her car and use it to haul plants or weeds or other things, and then she brings it back. The last time I was over there, she said, ‘I always wanted to have a wagon when I was little, but I never got to because I was a girl. In those days girls had their toys and boys had theirs. The only way I could take my dolls for a ride was to borrow my brother’s wagon. But it wasn’t mine, and I’ve always wanted one.’”
“Grandma already has that big wheelbarrow,” Dad reminded me. “Grandpa bought it for her birthday the year before he died.”
“But it tips the plants over, and when she gets to where she’s going, they’re all in a mess. Besides, it’s almost too big for her to handle. She’s tough, but she’s not very tall.”
“You have a point,” Dad said. “But a red wagon for a grandma?”
“Why not?” I wanted to know.
“It seems so silly.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it’s a neat idea.”
Well, everyone was supposed to watch Grandma and listen to her and see if they could figure out what she really wanted for Christmas. All they found out was that she didn’t want anything. She kept reminding them over and over again.
I couldn’t understand why no one took my idea seriously, because I could see more and more ways it would be convenient for Grandma to have that wagon she always wanted. She could take it to the grocery store on nice days when she wanted a little exercise, to the post office with packages, or just out to the street with her garbage can in it. And it would be perfect for her to pull along as she worked in the garden. I’d even figured out a little rack to hold her trowel, scratcher, scissors, and snail bait. The rack would fit in the front of the wagon and leave plenty of room for plants or weeds. I knew that she would love it.
Finally, because they really couldn’t think of anything else, the family members decided to chip in and buy the biggest, reddest, fanciest wagon they could find for Grandma. The handle was just the right length, and the wheels rolled along so easily that it seemed to be floating. It was beautiful!
They decided to leave it in the backyard because she was so determined not to have any presents under the tree.
“She’ll notice it out the window,” Aunt Nan said, “and if she doesn’t like it, we won’t be embarrassed, because she’ll think it belongs to one of the children.”
But I wanted to make sure that she knew the wagon was hers, so I painted “Grandma” on it in big white letters.
I was the one who got to sneak it out of the car and put it behind the house on Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning came, and I didn’t want to open my packages until I found out how Grandma felt about her present. It would be an awful day for her if she didn’t like it, because there wasn’t one gift wrapped up for her.
It wasn’t far to her house, so I hopped onto my bike and rode over. She saw me coming out the front window, waved, and threw open the door to yell. “Hurry, Janie! Hurry!”
She sounded so desperate that I wondered if she was having a heart attack, and when I got closer and saw the tears running down her cheeks, I felt terrible. She must be awfully sad or mad! I thought. But then I saw that she was smiling!
“You’ll never believe it, Janie!” she cried. “After all these years, I got my wagon! It was sitting right out there in the middle of the back lawn.”
“Wow!” I said, “That’s super!”
“I thought I didn’t want a thing this year,” she went on, “but someone knew exactly what I’d like.”
“I wonder who it was,” I said, trying to sound innocent.
She grabbed me in a big hug, and I snuggled close to her.
“Someone who prints just like you do,” she whispered.
I never could fool Grandma.

I said I was speaking to the young. I still am. A 14-year-old boy recently said to me a little hesitantly, “Brother Holland, I can’t say yet that I know the Church is true, but I believe it is.” I hugged that boy until his eyes bulged out. I told him with all the fervor of my soul that belief is a precious word, an even more precious act, and he need never apologize for “only believing.” I told him that Christ Himself said, “Be not afraid, only believe,”12 a phrase which, by the way, carried young Gordon B. Hinckley into the mission field.13 I told this boy that belief was always the first step toward conviction and that the definitive articles of our collective faith forcefully reiterate the phrase “We believe.”14 And I told him how very proud I was of him for the honesty of his quest.

The story of the founding of the Church in Kazakhstan suggests another role that some adventurous Church families will play. About three years ago a major law firm approached the Law School looking for a business lawyer willing to go to its office in Almaty, Kazakhstan. One of our graduates who had been in practice for several years responded. He and his family have now been in Kazakhstan about three years. Two other expatriate families have moved in. As recently reported in the Church News,31 the Church is now organized in Kazakhstan. These founding families are praying for someone to come with greater fluency in Russian, or with other gifts, so that they can teach and train new Church members more effectively.

Fleur remembers the first time she played the organ in sacrament meeting. She had played the piano in Primary, but when the ward organist was called to be the bishop, he encouraged her to play the organ. He asked her to play the closing hymn one sacrament meeting. Fleur was nervous.

When it was time for the hymn, she went to the organ, and the bishop sat beside her to work the pedals for her. From that day on, Fleur served as the ward organist, from age 10 to 14.

She says, “It was scary sitting up on the stand with people staring at me.” Her willingness to serve, however, brought a blessing: “After a while I got better at sight-reading the hymns. I could just go in and play them.”

I miss my friends. I wish I could have a birthday party this year. But there are too many COVID-19 cases.
Heavenly Father, please help me feel peace.
I know! I can look at my baptism journal!
My Testimony
The Holy Ghost will comfort me …
Thank Thee for reminding me about my baptism journal. And for the Holy Ghost. I feel much better now.
A few days later …
Happy birthday!
Knock, knock!
Beatrice! Our neighbor is here.
Happy birthday!
Thank you! How are you doing?
To be honest, I feel lonely. But I am trying to be happy.
Me too. I want to show you something!
This is from when I was baptized last year. It helps me feel better when I am lonely.
That is beautiful!
It reminds me that Jesus loves me and that everything is going to be OK.

The street was dark when he rounded the bend, except for the Tobins’ porch light shining yellow across the front lawn. He slowed down, peering carefully, uncertain at first of what he saw.

Sure enough, it was a person sitting on the porch, just like Tessie used to sit. It had to be her. He slowed to a crawl and turned into his driveway. She had only been a silhouette before, but now his headlights caught her and she blinked in surprise.

Tessie! So different, and yet, so much the same. Long brown hair, big eyes, and she was small, so much smaller than he’d pictured the grown-up Tessie to be.

He climbed out slowly, wondering if she was as glad to see him as he was to see her. She was a silhouette again, watching him. He waited under the birch tree.

“Hi.”

Her voice sounded unsteady, and for the first time he thought of how she must feel, seeing her childhood buddy all grown up.

He cleared his throat. “Is that you, Tessie? I hardly recognize you.”

“It’s me, only they call me Tess now.” There was an older tone in her voice now, maybe a touch of rebellion. He stepped closer and could see her more plainly, dressed in jeans and a simple red sweater, looking just like the little girl who’d gone to her first football game with him.

“I kept hearing how grown-up you’d become. I was almost afraid to see you.”

“Well, I am 13.”

“But you’re still Tessie.” He said it forcefully, almost as if his saying so would make it true.

She watched him, her head tilted. “You’ve been on a mission or something, haven’t you? For your church.”

“Yes, in Colombia.”

“Well, I have new friends now.” She looked away.

Could she really be like this, so cold and calculating? Could she have changed so much?

“I was hoping that you’d help me get the car back in shape.”

“It runs fine. You just drove up in it.”

“The clutch doesn’t feel right, and the brakes need adjusting.”

“Go to a mechanic.”

He stared. “This isn’t much of a welcome. I know that I’ve been gone a long time, but I thought that at least you’d be here, excited to see me. I guess I was wrong.”

He turned to go.

“Easy for you to say!”

He stopped.

“Where were you when I needed a friend? You just left, and I had nobody. You said that you’d be back after college, but you never came back, not that summer, not ever, and I had to find new friends.”

She was crying now, her shoulders shaking.

“Every time I get a friend, they always leave. My dad didn’t want me. When I wrote to him and said that I’d run away and live with him if he sent me the plane fare, he never even wrote back. You were a pretty good substitute, but you didn’t really care about me either, because you had college and a mission to think about, much more important than me. Well, I don’t need you either, because I have new friends now, and they’re a lot more fun than you ever were.”

“Tessie, I never knew any of that.” He sat beside her, put his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away and buried her face in her hands.

“Honestly, Tess, I never knew that you were lonely. I wanted to write, but I’m not very good at it. I have your picture, right in the front of my wallet. You’re my best friend. I need you.”

And she needed him. He’d been wrong, thinking that he didn’t have anything to offer a 13-year-old girl. He had a lot to offer, the same thing he’d always had to offer. He’d gone to South America for two years to teach the gospel of Christ, yet he’d neglected to share it with one of the most important people in his life, his next-door neighbor.

“Listen, you cry all you want to, but when you’re done, we’re going to the Ice Cream Hut for hot fudge sundaes.”

“I can’t let anybody see me like this.” She sat straighter, wiping her eyes.

“Then you can stay in the car. Hey, I’ll bet the car would love to have both of us riding around in it again. I suppose it’s been pretty lonely, parked in the driveway all these years.”

“I see it every day on my way to the bus stop.” She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Sometimes I talk to it, but not out loud. Sometimes I pretend that you’re home again and we’re working on it, like we used to.”

“But I am home.” He grinned. “And this time I’m not leaving until I give you a special present.”

“Present? What kind of present?”

“It’s another friend, a friend of mine who never leaves, even when everybody else turns away.”

She squinted in the porch light. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you about it some other time. Right now I need an ice cream sundae covered with hot fudge.”

She giggled, the same old giggle, and they walked toward the car.

A highlight of Boys Nation for me was meeting then president Dwight D. Eisenhower in the Rose Garden of the White House. He was one of the most impressive men I have ever met. His deportment and bearing, his piercing blue eyes, and his commanding manner of address made an indelible impression on me. Senator Wallace F. Bennett of Utah hosted the two of us who were representing Utah. He was gracious and kind and devoted considerable time to us. He introduced us to then senators John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson, as well as then vice president Richard M. Nixon, all of whom would be future presidents. The topic of civil rights was significant at that time. It was at Boys Nation that I was first introduced to the religious-based effort led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to achieve equality.

My admiration for President Eisenhower grew when a few months later, on September 23, 1957, he ordered the National Guard to support integration and protect the nine African American students who were attempting to integrate into Little Rock Central High School. The president’s action was in support of the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954, Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, requiring integration of public schools.

As a college student, Marion G. Romney (1897–1988) had decided he could not serve a mission because of his family’s financial situation. On one occasion, however, he heard Elder Melvin J. Ballard (1873–1939) speak. A biography notes, “Little did [Marion] know that the course of his life, in one very short moment, was about to be completely changed.”

The story continues: “For the first time Marion … fully understood what it was [like] to be under the influence of inspiration. A piercing, tingling sensation filled his soul. He … never had been so touched as he was now, listening to the words of this newest of the Apostles. …

“… The glow of the Apostle’s countenance and the sincerity of [his] testimony filled him with an irresistible desire to go on a mission. … He knew that his plans for further education must be postponed.”4

Soon, Marion was on his way to Australia, where he served faithfully. Later he became a mighty Apostle and a member of the First Presidency.

Several years ago we took our grandchildren on an escorted tour of the Church printing facilities. There, all of us saw the missionary edition of the Book of Mormon coming off the delivery line—printed, bound, and trimmed, ready for reading. I told the grandchildren, “The operator says that you can remove one copy of the Book of Mormon to be your very own. You select the copy, and it will then be yours.”

Each removed one finished copy and expressed his or her love for the Book of Mormon.

I really don’t remember other events of that day, but I shall never forget the honest expressions of love for the Book of Mormon—expressions which came from the hearts of those children.

I wasn’t a bad kid in high school. I played end on the football team and managed to get B grades and still have fun. But I was just as daring as the next. Which brings me to this incident.
A few of us kids were smoking by the garbage can in back of the high school. I don’t know who supplied the cigarettes, but that doesn’t matter.
As we puffed away, feeling good and mannish, a neighbor who lived close by called my mother and told her what her son was doing. I don’t know how mom got there so fast. But before I was ready to throw away the butt of the cigarette, there she was, and I was caught in the act. She talked to me good and proper.
When I arrived home after school, I went to my room and I was scared stiff. Dad would be home from work soon, and when mom told him of my sinful act, I knew I would be in for it but good.
Now dad, even for a churchgoer, was a good guy. We went hunting and fishing together and shared a good companionship. We camped in an old wall tent equipped with a woodburning stove. It was my responsibility to see there was a good supply of wood provided for the stove. Dad was the cook.
I heard the back door close and dad’s greeting to mom. Then for a few minutes there was a subdued conversation. I knew my sin was being discussed.
Then dad came to my room, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. He knew I was scared, and he let me wallow in my fear for a few moments before he spoke.
“Son, I want you to know that mom and I can’t make decisions for you. You know how we feel about smoking: it’s a dirty habit and injurious to your health. But if you decide to take up the habit, the decision is yours to make.”
He got up, walked to the door, then stopped and turned around.
“One more thing, son. You and I hunt and fish together and sleep in the old tent. If you become a smoker, you will have to sleep outside, for I can’t stand tobacco smoke. Now come on to supper.”
“Okay, dad, okay,” I said to myself. “Why didn’t you box my ears or slap me a couple of good ones on my posterior. Instead of that you hit me where it hurt the most, in the thing I love to do the best.” I did not take up the smoking habit, and things went pretty well at school and at home.

Kendra was alert for any opportunity to begin a gospel discussion. Like a lot of young people, her wallet was stuffed with pictures of everyone who’s ever been important to her. In front of all the others, she included a photo of the president of the Church and a picture of the Savior. When her friends would flip through her photos they’d ask if the kindly looking man in the first photo was her grandfather.

“Oh no,” she would explain. “He’s the president of our Church.” The next picture was of Christ. “I’m sure you recognize him,” she would say. “He’s my best friend.” It was a great conversation starter.

Sometimes, Kendra took the initiative even further. One Thursday night, when investigators called to say they couldn’t make it to her home to meet with the missionaries, she decided not to let her missionary night go to waste. She and a girlfriend jumped into the car and headed for town, where they found some young people and convinced them to skip a movie and come meet the missionaries instead.

Kendra’s missionary vigor helped 11 people join Christ’s true church and acquainted many others with its teachings. And Kendra herself grew tremendously while on her “mission.” She says it was the happiest time of her life because she cared so much about other people.

At the close of one of her letters to me, Kendra expressed joy that her “mission” really hasn’t ever ended. I sustain her in that thought. Though our callings in life may seem to change occasionally, their purposes remain the same—to help each other return to our Father’s presence.

I fulfilled my first mission over in Holland before there were temples anywhere but here in the west, and when our people joined the Church the first thing they wanted to do was to come to America. They were willing to sacrifice everything—leave their homes and sell their furniture and give up their employment—just to come to Zion; and it was that temple that drew them here.

I had a very earnest investigator, a businessman, who said, “I’ll never join your church.”

I asked, “Why?”

He said, “I don’t want to go to America.”

“Good for you!” I said. “You just join the Church and stay right here and help to take care of these branches.”

He had only been a member a few months when he came into my office one day and said, “Brother Richards, I have a chance to sell my business.”

I asked, “What do you want to sell your business for?”

“Oh, I want to go to Zion,” he said—and he came to that temple that Isaiah saw over three thousand years ago that would be built in the tops of the mountains and unto which all nations would flow, saying, “Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,” that they might walk in his ways and learn of his paths.

One evening President Kimball stayed late at the office, and so I continued working at my desk. It turned out that he was going to a dinner at the Lion House at 6:30 and was waiting for Sister Kimball to come and meet him so they could go to the dinner together. About 5:30, he urged me to go home, but I told him that I would stay as long as he did. He insisted, so I said, “I am torn between doing my duty to stay close to you and doing what you ask me to do.” He looked up at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, “They both ought to be the same, hadn’t they?”

It was while he was studying medicine at the University of Utah that he met his wife-to-be, Dantzel White.
He vividly remembers the feeling that came over him. “I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and sensed that she was the one I would marry,” he said. Dantzel felt the same way. When she went home to Perry, Utah, she announced to her parents that she had met the man she wanted to marry. Three years later they were married in the Salt Lake Temple.

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, is a most interesting place. In company with Elders Richard G. Scott, Rex D. Pinegar, and Larry W. Gibbons, I presided at a regional conference there just a short time ago. The facility in which we met was packed with members of the Church and other interested persons. The singing by the choir was heavenly, the spoken word inspiring, and the sweet spirit which prevailed during the conference will long be remembered.
I reflected on my previous visits to this location, the beauty of the state song—“Oklahoma,” from the musical production of Rodgers and Hammerstein—and the wonderful hospitality of the people there.
This community’s spirit of compassionate help was tested in the extreme, however, on April 19, 1995, when a terrorist-planted bomb destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City, taking 168 persons to their deaths and injuring countless others.
Following the regional conference in Oklahoma City, I was driven to the entrance of a beautiful and symbolic memorial which graces the area where the Murrah building once stood. It was a dreary, rainy day, which tended to underscore the pain and suffering which had occurred there. The memorial features a 400-foot reflecting pool. On one side of the pool are 168 empty glass and granite chairs in honor of each of the people killed. These are placed, as far as can be determined, where the fallen bodies were found.
On the opposite side of the pool there stands, on a gentle rise of ground, a mature American elm tree—the only nearby tree to survive the destruction. It is appropriately and affectionately named “The Survivor Tree.” In regal splendor it honors those who survived the horrific blast.
My host directed my attention to the inscription above the gate of the memorial:
We come here to remember those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever.
May all who leave here know the impact of violence.
May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.
He then, with tears in his eyes and with a faltering voice, declared, “This community, and all the churches and citizens in it, have been galvanized together. In our grief we have become strong. In our spirit we have become united.”
We concluded that the best word to describe what had taken place was compassion.