Gospel Story Finder

Calmly the bishop turned his head toward the sacrament table and gave the dreaded “no” sign. The young priest had missed a word while blessing the sacrament.
Give the kid a break, I thought to myself, trying in vain to transmit my brainwaves to the bishopric. After all, this was Billy we were talking about. This was a kid who had a tough enough time talking in complete sentences, let alone reading prayers in front of a congregation of people, speaking words verbatim from a card.
Just a week before, Billy’s dad had ordained him a priest. With that prayer came a promise that the Lord would help him overcome his handicaps. The following Sunday, that promise was put to the test. Billy was kneeling behind the sacrament table, confronted with a task that demanded nothing less than perfection.
Billy prayed again, and with loving composure, the bishop once again signaled for him to say the prayer over. Billy’s face filled with disappointment as he dropped to his knees, cleared his throat, and prayed. An anxious reverence filled the chapel.
As Billy began again, I prayed along with him, mouthing each word as if I could somehow control his speech. Amazingly, the technique seemed to be working. With only a few phrases to go, Billy’s prayer was perfect. And then the unthinkable happened as the words that I mouthed and Billy spoke went suddenly out of sync.
There would be no need for Billy to look at the bishop. Billy knew he had to start over. For one awkward and eternal moment he remained on his knees as all eyes focused on the bishopric. And then Andy arose from the congregation, walked quietly to the sacrament table, and knelt down next to his younger brother.
Bowing our heads in gratitude, we waited for Andy to offer the prayer and put an end to Billy’s suffering. But it was Billy’s voice—not Andy’s—that broke the silence. I held my breath as Billy tiptoed through the phrases with his brother at his side.
Then at last came “amen,” and the bishop smiled and nodded.
Billy emerged from behind the sacrament table wearing the same big grin he seemed to always have. For one sweet moment he had tasted perfection, and he knew it. We all knew it, and I more fully understood the wisdom of our bishop.
He was well aware of Billy’s weaknesses. But he loved Billy. He loved him enough to allow him the chance to magnify his priesthood and to let him try and fail until he found perfection.
In that perfect prayer that Billy uttered, we were all lifted and edified. We all saw a priest of great courage who knelt with his older brother and preached a powerful sermon from the sacrament table.

Katie* was going roller-skating for her birthday party and was thinking about whom to invite. She wanted Jenny and Vicki to come—they were in her Primary class. She would invite Teresa, too, of course. She was Katie’s best friend.
As Katie waited for her Primary teacher to start the class, she noticed Alice walk in. Alice didn’t come to Primary very often. Her clothes looked worn, and her hair wasn’t combed. Katie thought that Alice’s words sounded funny when she talked and that Alice smelled strange. Alice hardly ever said anything at all. She mostly just sat there with her head down. Katie thought that Alice had probably never been invited to a birthday party.
Katie had been to Alice’s house once, when Mom was delivering something to Alice’s mother for Relief Society. Alice’s family was very large, and Katie wondered where they all slept, because they lived in a small trailer. When Mom had knocked on the door and one of the older children answered, Katie could see how dirty it was inside. Mom explained what she had and asked that it be given to Alice’s mother. The boy didn’t say anything. He just took it and shut the door. Katie was glad for her own clean home, even if she did have to share a room with her older sister, Tara.
Looking at Alice now, Katie remembered that visit, and she felt bad for the sad-faced girl sitting alone. She thought about Jesus and how He treated those who were poor, or sick, or didn’t fit in.
The next day when Mom asked if she was ready to work on birthday invitations, Katie announced that she would like to invite Alice.
Katie wondered what her friends might think and what Alice might wear. Most of all, Katie worried that Alice wouldn’t come. Katie talked to Mom and to Tara about her concerns, and they worked out a plan.
When it came time to deliver Alice’s invitation, Katie had butterflies in her stomach. Tara went to the door with her. A circle of little faces appeared, but no one spoke. “Is Alice here, please?” Katie asked.
One child left, and a few moments later, Alice was at the door. “Here.” Katie thrust the white envelope toward her. “This is for you. It’s an invitation to my birthday party.”
Alice didn’t say anything, but she looked surprised.
“It’s next Wednesday,” Katie said. “My mom and I will pick you up at eleven.” Katie and her sister said good-bye and got back in the car with big smiles on their faces.
On the way to Alice’s house Wednesday morning, Katie said a silent prayer that Alice would come. When she and Mom arrived, Alice’s whole family was outside. Katie felt awkward with all those children staring at her. She was relieved when Alice came toward her and silently followed Katie into the back seat.
At Katie’s house, Alice was welcomed by Tara.
“We have a while before the other girls arrive,” Katie told her. “Let’s go to Tara’s and my room.”
In the bedroom, Alice looked around, amazed. “Wow! Your room is really pretty!”
Tara opened the closet. “I think we are the same size,” she said to Alice. “I can lend you some pants and a shirt, if you’d like. Then you won’t have to roller-skate in a dress.” She pulled out a pair of blue pants and a matching top. “I think these will fit.”
“You can get dressed in there.” Katie pointed to the bathroom.
Alice looked into the bathroom and seemed ready to cry. “What’s wrong?” Tara asked.
Alice whispered, “Can I wash my hair, please?”
“Of course!” Katie told her kindly. “Would you like us to help you wash it in the sink?”
Tara and Katie helped Alice wash her hair. They helped her comb and style her hair, then left her alone to bathe and dress.
When Alice came out, there was a smile on her face. It was the first time Katie had ever seen her smile.
“Let’s eat,” the sisters said as they led Alice to the kitchen.
Alice didn’t say much during lunch, but she seemed to enjoy the food, and she ate everything on her plate.
After lunch, Tara took Alice aside and showed her the present she had gotten for Katie. “I have some paper we can wrap it in, and a marker to sign our names.”
“Oh!” Alice was excited. “I would love to give Katie a present.”
She and Tara wrapped the present and printed their names neatly on the outside.
Then the other party guests started to arrive. Katie had told her friends that Alice was going to be there. Each greeted Alice kindly, and soon she was talking with everyone. They opened presents and ate birthday cake. On the way to the roller rink, Katie didn’t get to sit by Alice—one of the other girls wanted to.
Katie and Teresa took Alice’s hands and helped her skate around the circular room. Alice giggled with delight. Katie had never heard Alice laugh before. Soon everyone was taking turns being Alice’s partner.
One of the girls came up to Katie and said, “I wish I had invited Alice to my birthday party.”
“There is always next year,” Katie said.
When the party was over, Mom took Alice home. Before getting out of the car, she grabbed Katie’s hand, squeezed hard, and said, “Thank you.”
As Katie rode home, she thought about her birthday presents. She liked them all, but her favorite one was the smile, laugh, and “Thank you” from Alice.

I bear witness this day that we have been instructed by an inspired prophet of the Lord. I also know President Kimball loves each of us, and he loves particularly one of your sons whom I met recently in Korea.
We had stopped at an Army post exchange. Soldiers were milling around, and one of them recognized our Latter-day Saint chaplain. He came over to us with a cigarette partially hidden in his hand. When the chaplain introduced me as “one of the General Authorities,” he was so startled he nearly burned his hand trying to get rid of the cigarette. I put my arm around him and told him we were at the base for a brief meeting with our Church members, and hoped that he would attend. He made several excuses, but I said, “We will be honored if you come to our meeting. The Church cares about you. Come and join us. We’re your friends.” I think he could feel that I meant it. Before our meeting had ended that evening, he slipped in and joined us.

Within weeks of my call to the Twelve in October 2015, I had the opportunity to get an up-close glimpse of the past professional life of President Nelson. I was invited to attend an event where he was honored as a pioneer of heart surgery. When I entered the venue, I was astonished to see the large number of professionals there to honor and recognize the work that President Nelson had done many years before as a medical doctor and surgeon.

That evening numerous professionals stood and expressed their respect and admiration for President Nelson’s outstanding contribution to his medical specialty. As impressive as each of the presenters was in describing President Nelson’s various accomplishments, I was even more spellbound by a conversation I struck up with a man seated next to me. He did not know who I was, but he knew President Nelson as Dr. Nelson, director of the thoracic surgery residency program at a medical school in 1955.

This man was President Nelson’s former student. He shared many memories. Most interesting was his description of President Nelson’s teaching style, which, he said, brought with it a large measure of notoriety. He explained that much of the teaching of heart surgery residents was conducted in the operating room. There, residents observed and performed surgery under faculty supervision, as a laboratory classroom. He shared that the operating room environment under certain faculty surgeons was chaotic, competitive, pressure filled, and even ego driven. This man described it as a difficult environment, sometimes even demeaning. As a result, resident surgeons even felt their careers were often on the line.

He then explained the unique environment found in President Nelson’s operating room. It was peaceful, calm, and dignified. Residents were treated with deep respect. However, following the demonstration of a procedure, Dr. Nelson expected the highest standard of performance from each of the residents. This man further described how the best patient outcomes and the best surgeons came out of Dr. Nelson’s operating room.

This is no surprise to me at all. This is what I have observed firsthand and been truly blessed by in the Quorum of the Twelve. I feel like I have been, in a sense, one of his “residents in training.”

President Nelson has an exceptional way of teaching others and offering correction in a positive, respectful, and uplifting manner. He is the embodiment of a Christlike heart and an example to us all. From him we learn that in any circumstance we find ourselves, our conduct and hearts can be in accordance with the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

One inactive member was jolted into the realization that she was not converted to the Church when her son went on a mission. Comparing herself to others whose impressive conversion stories she had heard, she asked herself, “Why are these people converted so powerfully, and I, with my pioneer heritage, remain unconverted?” She began to read the Book of Mormon even though she doubted its worth and found it boring. Then a friend challenged her. She said, “You say you believe in prayer. Well, why don’t you pray about it?”

This she did, and after she had prayed, she began to read the Book of Mormon again. It was no longer boring. The more she read, the more fascinated she became with it and thought, “Joseph Smith couldn’t have written that—these words were from God!” She finished reading it and wondered how God would tell her that it was true. She said: “A power strong, beautiful, and joyful moved completely through my body. … I knew that Jesus Christ was resurrected, … that Joseph Smith was a prophet who saw God and Jesus Christ. I knew that he miraculously translated ancient records with God’s guidance. I knew that Joseph Smith received revelations from God.” It changed her life because now she too was a convert!

This story happened in the USA.
Bjorn looked around at all the big cardboard boxes in his new home. His family had just moved from Argentina to the United States.
It was scary to move so far away. Everything was unfamiliar. But he knew that if he was with his family, everything would be OK.
As Bjorn helped his family unpack, Mami picked up a big box and smiled. “This one has our Christmas ornaments in it!” she said.
Bjorn smiled. He loved Christmas and was excited to celebrate it with his family. He was still nervous about living in a new place, but knowing that it was almost Christmas cheered him up.
A few days later, Bjorn’s family sat down together for a home evening lesson about Christmas. Papi explained that it is a season for giving gifts.
“Yay! Presents!” Bjorn said.
“Yes, getting presents is fun,” Mami said. “But it’s even more important to give gifts to the Savior.”
“How do we give presents to Jesus?” asked Bjorn.
“When we serve others like Jesus did, it makes Him happy,” said Mami.
The next morning Bjorn heard a knock at the front door. He jumped out of bed and ran to see who it was. But when Papi and Mami opened the door, nobody was there. Instead, Mami picked up a small, shiny gift from the doorstep.
“Where did it come from?” Bjorn asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mami said. “Maybe an angel!”
Bjorn’s eyes got wide. “Like an angel from heaven?”
Papi smiled. “No. Sometimes we call people angels when they do kind things for us. It’s like they are Heavenly Father’s helpers here on earth.”
Bjorn jumped in the air. “I want to be an angel too! I want to do kind things for others. That will be my Christmas gift to Jesus.”
“Great idea!” Papi said. “Jesus will love your gift.”
For the rest of the week, Bjorn woke up every morning to find a new gift on the doorstep. He felt so loved when the angels left gifts for his family. He wanted to show his family that he loved them too.
So Bjorn got to work. He secretly prepared gifts for his parents and siblings. He shined Papi’s shoes while he was at work and drew a heart for Mami. Then he wrapped one of his favorite toy cars for his brother. He got bubble gum for his sister.
Carefully, Bjorn wrote the names on each present and placed them under the Christmas tree. He couldn’t wait to see their happy faces! He felt warm inside just thinking about it.
On Christmas Day, Bjorn gave each family member their gift. He was so excited he could hardly sit still.
When Papi saw his shiny shoes, he said, “Wow, thank you, Bjorn! These look wonderful.”
Bjorn’s brother and sister opened their presents, then jumped up to give Bjorn hugs. “Thanks!” they said.
Mami smiled when she unwrapped the picture Bjorn had drawn for her. “You’ve helped make this Christmas so special, Bjorn. Thank you for being our little angel,” she said.
Bjorn felt happy inside. He knew that showing love to his family was the perfect present to give Jesus!

Toriki Chung Tien, 16, from Tubuai, said, “My little brother and I painted our grandfather’s graveyard house and helped our mother decorate his grave with pride and joy. Every time we talked about him and the blessings he performed, I felt his presence and my tears flowed. Thanks to the gospel and the Resurrection, I know that one day we will meet as a family and that I will find my grandpa who I miss so much.”

Forrest Michaelson showed up in my homeroom the Wednesday after Easter vacation. It had been a typically wet April morning, and he had on jeans, a T-shirt, and cowboy boots. An ankle-length, buff-leather, oilskin slicker made him look like he’d blown into town out of a Clint Eastwood western. He gave Mr. Riegert a form from the office. Raking his fingers through his tousled, black hair, he gave the rest of us a bemused look as Mr. Riegert shuffled us about so he could reseat us alphabetically.
But the thing that struck me most was how totally unself-conscious he was. His whole demeanor said: Whatever’s going on here, I’m not getting uptight about it.
“Shophead,” sniffed Linda Matthews, who sat behind me.
That said it all. But as Mr. Riegert read the roll to make up a new seating chart, I couldn’t help noticing how Forrest Michaelson paid close attention to each name as it was called out. And when Mr. Riegert called my name and I said, “Here,” our eyes met momentarily. He had sharp, clear eyes, and he winked at me, like we had something in common.
I turned away sharply to tell him he was wrong.
But after the bell rang, he caught up with me in the hall.
“Heather Mastrioanni?”
I nodded.
“Kinda new here, you know. Direct me to D-wing? Room 104.” He pointed to the first class on his schedule. I almost gaped. Auto shop, of course, but he was also signed up for AP calculus.
I said, “First room on the right past the cafeteria.”
“Thanks.” He ambled off down the hall.
After civics I went to the cafeteria and sat down at my usual place. When Forrest Michaelson put his tray down right across the table from me I didn’t notice him. Well, Rob Herndon had just walked in with Linda and I was thinking it would be nice if he ever wanted to eat lunch with me. I looked up and nearly choked on my tuna fish sandwich.
“Thought we should get to know each other better,” Forrest said. “It seems that we constitute a minority of two.”
“What minority of two?” I finally said.
“Mormons,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “At least in the senior class. That’s what I gathered from your father.”
Of course. I nearly smacked myself on the side of the head. The Michaelsons. Monday, Mom and Dad had gone over to help a family who were just moving into the ward. But I never connected them with this Forrest Michaelson.
Forrest read my reaction with a smile. “Initial impressions can be misleading.” He glanced around the cafeteria. “So, how about a tour of the student body? Beginning with the pack of jackals over there, for example.” He nodded to where Rob and his teammates were sitting.
“That’s Rob Herndon,” I said, coldly. “He’s on the wrestling team, and he’s a nice guy.”
“If you say so.”
“Initial impressions can be misleading.”
“Touché,” he said, touching his forehead in a kind of salute.
He always sat with me during lunch. There wasn’t anything I could do about it, and I knew as long as Forrest was sitting there, no one else would dare to.
“You know, Forrest,” I finally said to him one day, “I don’t know why you think you have to sit with me. We really don’t have anything in common.”
That provoked a raised eyebrow. “I would have thought we had most everything in common. We sure don’t share the same taste in fashion, but we believe the same things, and that makes us pretty even.”
“Oh, really? What about those shophead friends of yours? I’ve got a lot more in common with Rob than you do with them.”
“No, you don’t. Okay, maybe my friends don’t believe the same things I do, but they don’t pretend they do, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The people who hang around guys like Herndon, they want to think he’s their friend because they want to pretend they’re his friends.”
I didn’t pretend to understand what he had just said. I just laughed. “You expect me to believe he’s such a terrible person just because you don’t get along with him?”
“I really don’t worry about getting along with Herndon or not, Heather. But I don’t laugh at his jokes or marvel at who he goes out with, so that kind of counts me out, doesn’t it? Every school I’ve been in has a pack of them. And they come on to you depending on what kind of a person they think you are.”
“He’s always been nice to me,” I protested.
“He’s as nice as it takes.”
The worst thing about these arguments was that they convinced everybody that Forrest and I were a serious thing. Even Linda was convinced. Linda would ask me about him, about us, and about other things as well, which was a total shock, because before Linda hardly said two sentences to me. We became pretty good friends, though. She even got me on the publicity committee for senior class night at Jumpin’ Jacks drive-in.
Friday I stayed late cleaning up in art class and missed the bus. I was standing at the front entrance debating whether to call Mom or wait for the late bus when Forrest walked up.
“Miss your bus?”
I hesitated a moment too long.
“Be right back,” Forrest said and jogged off to the student lot. He drove up and got the door for me.
“So what’s this big deal at Jumpin’ Jacks?” he asked.
“It’s the drive-in across from the park by the river marina. The Friday before Memorial Day is senior class night. Nothing formal. Just a chance to have a good time before the Regents exams begin.” I waited as long as I thought I could before I felt I had to ask him the obvious question. “I don’t expect you’d want to come?”
“I thought I might.”
“Really? I didn’t think you’d be interested in that kind of thing. After all, Rob Herndon and his friends will be there.”
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t be. But if you’re going to be there …”
“I don’t need a chaperon, Forrest.”
He pulled into our driveway. I got out and slammed the door to show just how grateful I wasn’t for the ride and stormed up the steps and into the house.
Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner. “Forrest drive you home?”
I sat down at the kitchen table and folded my arms and didn’t answer.
Mom wasn’t impressed by my attitude. “Forrest taking you to Jumpin’ Jacks tonight?”
“Mom!” I exploded, “Why does everybody think I’m dating Forrest Michaelson?”
Mom looked at me quite innocently. “I didn’t think you were dating Forrest. It just seemed reasonable that he would give you a ride, if you’re both going.”
“I wouldn’t go out with him if he were the last man on Earth,” I stated. “He’s stubborn and opinionated. He always thinks he’s right.”
I could tell by the way Mom reacted that she didn’t like my choice of words, and I cringed inside at the anticipated correction.
“Well, yes,” Mom said, after giving it some thought, “but it’s more than that.”
I looked at Mom, amazed. She was actually agreeing with me.
“I think, like most teenagers, he can’t bring himself to be just another slice of bread. But he’s smart enough to know what’s important. So it’s his way of proving what the Church means to him without having to come out and say it. The same way you wouldn’t respect a lion if it barked like a Chihuahua. He’s protecting what he respects.”
“He’s determined to protect me as well,” I said glumly. “He’s got an opinion about all my friends, whether I ought to be associating with them at all, whether they’re really my friends. Like it’s any of his business.”
Mom laughed. “Young men like Forrest suffer from being taken too seriously too much of the time. I think humoring him would go a long way.”
“Then he’s going to have to be humored at a distance.”
It was only a short walk through the park to the drive-in. Someone came up behind me and I turned around. It was Forrest.
There were tons of kids there already. We crowded into line. It was great food but pretty expensive. I had eaten dinner so I wouldn’t be tempted, but Forrest ordered a seafood platter that made my mouth water. When we sat down and Forrest said, “Have a shrimp,” I couldn’t refuse.
“So where’s Linda?” Forrest asked.
I didn’t know.
A moment later he said, “Speak of the devil.”
Rob drove up and he and Linda got out. She looked flustered, a bit disheveled, and a little scared. Rob just looked angry.
After they ordered, Linda brought her plate over to our table. I couldn’t believe she knew what she was doing. I could tell Rob was hating it.
“Don’t mind, do you?” Rob said icily.
“Not at all,” Forrest said. “In fact, I was just leaving.
“Yes,” I said, almost without thinking, “we were just leaving.”
The rest of the jackals then crowded around the table, pushing us out of the way.
“Are you really leaving?” Linda asked quietly. She tried to laugh and stood up. “I guess I don’t care much for the company of some of my friends,” she said as she began to follow us.
“I don’t care much for the company of some of your friends, either,” Forrest said.
Rob stood up and looked around. “Hey, Linda, where are you going? Get over here. C’mon, the night is still young.”
I heard the jackals laughing. I used to think it was funny, the way Rob talked to Linda, but I felt cold and sick inside.
Then Rob grabbed for her. Linda shied away. “Quit playing hard to get, Linda.” He reached for her again, and Forrest caught Rob’s wrist like a vice grip. Rob’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “You got some kind of problem?”
It suddenly got quiet.
“No problem,” Forrest said. He stepped to the side and let go of Rob’s wrist. Rob immediately lurched forward, thumping Forrest hard on his shoulders. Forrest backed away, showing the palms of his hands.
“Let’s go, Linda,” I said quietly.
Rob stood, flushed and angry. Forrest, facing him, looked like he had just solved a math problem too simple to bother with in the first place. When we reached the sidewalk, he turned and walked away.
“That’s right, chump!” Rob shouted. “Go ahead, walk away!”
“I’m sorry,” said Linda, when Forrest joined us.
Forrest simply shrugged.
We walked through the park, then up Lakeside Avenue to the Michaelsons’s house. It was reassuring to have Forrest with us. So I did have more in common with him than Rob Herndon, a lot more. But I could live with that. When you’ve been in a den of jackals, you come to appreciate the pride of lions.

Sometimes we have so many ideas and thoughts to share that we give in to the temptation to tell a lot of stories that have nothing in common. While they may all be effective if given at the proper time, their value is lost when given with many other unrelated stories. This results in the following situation:
A Nebraska farmer stepped into the town hall to hear the visiting speaker. The talk went on so long, however, that he sauntered outside for a bit of fresh air. A neighbor passing by asked, “Jim, what is he talkin’ about?”
“I don’t know,” came the reply. “He ain’t said.”

This time, I would like to humbly add a comparison inspired from an area in the field of my professional preparation. I am referring to the world of civil engineering. From the beginning of my university studies, I dreamed of the day when I would complete the requirements to be qualified to take the class that would teach me how to design buildings and other structures that could then be considered “anti-seismic.”

The day finally arrived for my first class on this subject. The first words from the professor were the following: “You are surely anxious to begin this course and learn how to design anti-seismic structures,” to which many of us eagerly nodded our heads. Then the professor said, “I am sorry to tell you that this is not possible, for I cannot teach you how to design a building that is against, that is ‘anti-’ or that is opposed to, an earthquake. This makes no sense,” he said, “because earthquakes will occur anyway, whether we like it or not.”

Then he added, “What I can teach you is how to design structures that are seismic-resistant, structures that can resist the forces coming from an earthquake, so that the structure remains standing without suffering any serious damage and can then continue offering the service for which it had been conceived.”

Although more than 40 years have passed since that first class in seismic-resistant engineering, I perfectly remember the moment when I began to acquire a deeper, more complete understanding of the vital importance that this concept would be present in the structures that I would design in my future professional life. Not only that, but even more important—that it would be permanently present in the edification of my own life and in those over whom I might exercise a positive influence.

One man told of an interesting coincidence that happened the first time he attended the Gospel Essentials class with a neighbor. “I had mixed emotions about going at first,” he said. “I was mildly interested in finding out what the Mormons believe, but I was afraid someone would say something about me smelling like tobacco. I knew the Mormons didn’t believe in smoking. But when I got there, who should I see but my other next-door neighbor. I knew he had smoked for years, and he looked pretty sheepish, too. But when he spotted me, he opened up with a wide grin, and we were a pair throughout the classes. We got along great with everybody.”

Opportunities for Christian acts of service do not always come at convenient times. Approximately two or three years ago I was in southern California. I had reorganized a stake. Just as I was getting ready to go out to the airport where I could relax and just let down, a woman approached me. She was in her mature years and she said, “Elder Featherstone, are you going back to Salt Lake today?” I said, “Yes.” She continued, “Are you going on that four o’clock flight?” I responded that I was. Then she said, “Would you mind doing a favor for me?” I quickly thought about the schedule I had just been through, and the flesh was begging for a little break. I assumed she wanted me to hand carry something to her relatives. I never check baggage unless I absolutely have to. I wondered if I would have to check what it was I assumed she wanted me to bring back. I thought about waiting at the baggage claim for the item; then I wondered where it would need to be delivered. Only a moment’s pondering and as always, the spirit thrust aside all empty excuses and responded as a service-oriented leader should.
I said, “I will be glad to help in whatever way possible.” Then the woman said, “My grandson Phillip has been down here with me for a couple of weeks. How would you like to baby-sit him home to Salt Lake? He is two-and-a-half years old. His mother will be waiting for him at the airport.” We arranged to meet at the Los Angeles Airport, where the grandmother introduced me to Phillip. Before we boarded the plane she said, “Here is an envelope. Will you wait until you are on the plane to open it?” I found out why she made that request later.
Phillip and I boarded the plane. We sat on the row behind the bulkhead.
I reached into my pocket and opened the letter from the grandmother. It went something like this:
“Dear Elder Featherstone, Thank you for taking Phillip back to Salt Lake and baby-sitting him for us. We appreciate it. His mother will be there at the airport to meet you; but if she is not there, then here is what you do.”
Then she had written, “The reason I did not dare have you open the letter before you were on board the plane is that I did not have enough courage to ask you to do another favor for us. Phillip’s brother Ricky is in the University of Utah Hospital. He has had constant seizures, many a day. The doctors do not know what else to do. They have done all they know, and he still has the problem. Do you think you could possibly find time to go by the hospital and give him a blessing?”
When we arrived in Salt Lake, there was no one to meet us at the gate. We walked the length of the terminal. Still no one recognized Phillip. We went down the escalator, past the baggage claim, and out to the curb. I have done some unusual things in our marriage, but I wondered what my wife would say when I came home from a stake conference with a two-and-a-half-year-old boy.
I looked around and stood with Phillip for a moment, and then the mother pulled up along the curb. She had been delayed coming to the airport. The sweet mother was very kind, and she loaded a happy Phillip and all his gear into the car.
A short while later I was standing in one of the pediatric wards at the University of Utah Hospital. There were about six children in cribs. An attendant was mopping the floor, and then he left the room. I was all alone in the hospital room with these six beautiful children.
I found out which was Ricky’s bed and went over to him. I said, “My name is Vaughn Featherstone. Do you know who I just left?” He said, “No,” and I said, “I came back from Los Angeles today, and I brought your brother Phillip home. I told him I was coming here to see you.” Ricky was only four, but tears came to his eyes. He missed his little brother.
Then I said to him, “Ricky, I am a friend of President Spencer W. Kimball, and he loves you. President Kimball is a prophet. Your grandmother asked me if I would give you a blessing. Do you know what it means when someone lays his hands on your head and gives you a blessing?” He said, “Yes.” And then I said, “Ricky, do you believe in Jesus?” He said, “Yes.” “Do you know that Jesus loves you? Do you know that Jesus can heal you?” He answered, “Yes.” Then I asked, “Would you like me to give you a blessing so you can be healed?” “Yes,” he said.
I laid my hands upon his head and gave Ricky a blessing. An interesting thing happened in the little pediatric ward. The other children stopped playing or crying and seemed to listen.
When I finished the blessing I reached in my pocket and pulled out a beautifully polished rock with my name on it that someone had given me. I gave it to Ricky, so that when his mother came she would know that I had been there.
Two years later I was in the Kingsport Tennessee Stake and a sweet young mother came up to me after conference. She told me it was her mother that had asked me to baby-sit Phillip and bless Ricky and then she said, “Have you ever had any feedback on your blessing?” I told her I had not. Then she shared with me the great miracle, “Ricky has not had another seizure since you gave him the blessing.”
It was not opportune to take Phillip home, nor was it convenient to drop by the University of Utah Medical Center; but it was what Jesus would have done. Our service must always lead us to ask, “What would Jesus do?”

I used to think I was an incurable procrastinator. Finally, things got so backed up that it was impossible, so I went to a teacher. We set up a program that would severely affect my grade if I didn’t keep up with it. I set deadlines for small portions of big assignments to force myself to start working on them before the night before they were due. Luckily for me, it worked.
I’m still working on it, but look, I got this letter mailed in on time!
Tami Anderson, 16Roanoke, Virginia

Each year I feel the Christmas spirit in our home as we get out the Nativity scene and the other traditional decorations. And always, when we place the Christmas angel in her usual spot, I remember something that happened halfway around the world.
It’s 22 December 1970. I am in the jungle near the village of Song Be, South Vietnam. We can hear the supply helicopters coming. We prepare the landing zone for them and wait to receive supplies: food, water, ammunition, and, most important, letters and packages from home.
I make sure the men under my command have received their rations and have all their mail and packages. Then I take some time to read my own letters. My mind wanders, and many things trouble me as I read the letters—some of them mailed over four weeks ago. I’ve been in Vietnam for 335 days, most of them spent in combat. I feel calloused and frustrated with life. Here it is—three days before Christmas—and the one thing I’m thinking of is that I have only twenty-nine days left until my assignment ends and I’m on my way home. I hope my last combat missions will go well, that I’ll be able to leave my responsibilities and my men well, and that the officer replacing me will be the best one they could receive.
I have no thoughts of Christmas or of my Savior’s birth until I open the package with the beautiful white angel inside. She’s about twelve inches tall, is dressed in white clothes, has golden hair, and stands on a music box. I put her on top of an overturned ammunition can and begin to read the letter from my dear mother.
In her own words, she tells me the story of the birth of our Savior and bears a quiet, sweet testimony. I feel myself being lifted spiritually. My mother told me the Christmas story over and over when I was a child, but never did I feel the Spirit of Christ so close before.
I glance up from the letter and notice some of my men looking at the white angel. I wind up the music box, and no one says a word as the sound of “Silent Night” fills the air and the Christmas angel brings special emotions out in each one of us. Some tears are shed and feelings exchanged as the Spirit of Christ touches each one of us.
Later, as I pack and prepare to move out, I wrap the angel carefully and place her in my backpack. I think of home, family, and loved ones. But most of all, I think of Jesus and all that he has done for me.

Bodyboarding has been my greatest passion since I discovered it. It is my outlet, my decompression. From the outset, I always wanted to excel in it.
To get to the highest level, I practiced tirelessly, surfing all day whenever possible. I focused on my goal to become the best drop-knee rider in Tahiti. I won the title two or three times in that category at the Tahiti Taapuna Master surfing tournament as well as at other tournaments.
When I started, the competitions gave me a thrill, and I wanted to show everyone how good I was. Soon, I started getting offers from local and overseas sponsors.
Tournament finals are always held on Sunday, and I often had arguments with my wife about competing on the Lord’s day. She was right. Surfing was taking over too much of my life, but I didn’t want to lose my sponsors. Sponsors allowed me access to top-end, professional surfing equipment, which is expensive. I had to make a choice.
My wife and children motivate me to be an example of faith. They help me determine what I want to become. And of course, my personal faith, the upbringing I received from my parents and leaders, the example of others who have made sacrifices to honor the Sabbath, and the impressions I received from the Spirit also helped me to make my decision. I decided to give priority to my responsibilities as a husband, father, and member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
When I decided to devote myself entirely to the Lord on Sunday, I explained to my sponsors why I no longer surf in the finals on Sunday. I told them that my spiritual and family life takes precedence.
They supported me in my choice. In return, out of respect for Sunday, they asked me to do photo shoots and surf videos on other days of the week. My friends in the circuit also know and respect my religious beliefs and often ask me to pray for them.
I’ve qualified for the finals of the Taapuna Master every year since I turned pro, but I stopped competing on Sunday after winning the title in 2006. I still compete, but now, when they call my name for the finals on Sunday, everyone knows I won’t be there.

It seems that every class has its black sheep, and my seminary class was no exception. One boy was a total loser in every sense of the word. At least it seemed that way.
He was scrawny and combed his greasy black hair straight down so that it covered his eyes and hid him from the world. Mockingly, I compared him to an ostrich who buried his head in the sand so he couldn’t be seen by others. He always sat at the back of the room, never voluntarily participating in any discussion. Friends were out of the question. He was a loner. I feel ashamed to say it, but I figured he couldn’t do much of anything, and I know many of the other students felt the same way. I was extremely surprised when he won the championship scripture chase award. I smugly thought that he just had more time to study because he wasn’t involved in anything else. The night of our seminary closing social proved how wrong my opinion of him was.
That evening remains indelibly engraved upon my mind. I arrived early at the church—a miracle in itself—and found him already there. Again I rationalized that his promptness resulted from a lack of having anything else to do. I greeted him with a perfunctory hello, then hurried to help the other “more friendly” kids set up chairs. Besides, I knew how he would react if I tried to start a conversation with him. First, his head would drop until his eyes became firmly attached to his switching feet. His shaking hands would nervously jiggle his car keys, showing how uncomfortable he felt. He always tensed up whenever I came near. Instinctively, I decided to avoid that awkward experience.
Then the time came for the party to begin. I was trying to round up the deafening herd of kids when I saw my teacher peek into the chapel. A smile of pure delight appeared on his face, like the expression one would find on the countenance of a miner at the discovery of gold. Indeed, a hidden treasure had been found.
Beautiful music floated out through the chapel doors—not just notes but feelings. The person playing the piano had been blessed with outstanding musical abilities. I looked in, expecting to see an adult practicing for a performance. Instead I was shocked to see that the piano player was the quiet boy who I had thought couldn’t do anything. One by one, the entire class crept into the chapel while he continued to play complete compositions—from memory—of Bach, Beethoven, and others. Painfully, my conscience reminded me of my critical judgment of him. I had pronounced him a nobody, simply because he was different from me. I felt superior to him. What a joke! Humbled, I realized he must have numerous other talents to which my abilities couldn’t even be compared. What a mistake it had been to think of him as a zero.
Someone coughed. Immediately, he glanced down, catching us like a bunch of kids with our hands in his cookie jar. We were devouring his musical treats without permission. Instantaneously, he flushed crimson, not from anger as I expected, but from embarrassment. He closed the lid of his music box and slowly left the stand. Thick compliments coated the air as he walked down the aisle and out of the chapel. Still red, he mumbled a humble thanks, not wanting any more of that sticky attention.
The seminary party went on to be a success with everyone laughing, joking, and acting crazy. (I should say acting normal.) That is everyone except me. Somehow that small incident changed me in a very big way.

Around the world literally hundreds of people are gaining this testimony daily. I heard one such person speak just a few days ago. He was a new convert to the Church. He was a young man and he had a young family. He told how his life had literally changed—how the life of his whole family had changed. For the first time he knew what his relationship to God was and what the Lord expected of him. Because of this, he said, he was a better husband and father. He knew where he was going and could lead his family in a better way. But mostly he was happy—happy with the quiet joy that fills the life of every truly converted person.

A second lesson I learned was from Sister Amy A. Wright, First Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, who spoke immediately following Elder Christofferson. She taught:
“Oftentimes we can find ourselves, like the lame beggar at the gate of the temple, patiently—or sometimes impatiently—‘wait[ing] upon the Lord [Isaiah 40:31].’ Waiting to be healed physically or emotionally. Waiting for answers that penetrate the deepest part of our hearts. Waiting for a miracle.”8
My prayer going into that general conference had been for immediate results. I knew this wasn’t realistic, but I hadn’t anticipated learning lessons about the importance of waiting.
Sister Wright continued: “Waiting upon the Lord can be a sacred place—a place of polishing and refining where we can come to know the Savior in a deeply personal way. Waiting upon the Lord may also be a place where we find ourselves asking, ‘O God, where art thou?’ [Doctrine and Covenants 121:1]—a place where spiritual perseverance requires us to exercise faith in Christ by intentionally choosing Him again and again and again.”9
I have given this concept a lot of thought since that general conference. Learning to wait, to be patient with my children and their choices, and to trust that the Lord is ever seeking after them has required a lot of effort on my part. I wish it were as simple as making the choice one time to believe and then being filled with peace for the rest of my days, as I pray that my children will choose to reach out to the Savior and exercise faith in Him. But it has not been that way for me. Some days it has felt easier to give in to hopelessness and despair, to give up because it may seem like “the plan isn’t working.” It has required great effort and spiritual perseverance to exercise faith and maintain hope in Heavenly Father’s plan when I’m seeing my children make choices that don’t reflect the divine truths I taught them. Yet, every day that I choose hope over despair, I am choosing Him. Again and again and again.
This struggle has brought me closer to God. It has made me turn to Him through prayer. It has focused my scripture study. It has turned me to the temple. Most of all, it has made me immensely grateful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful to know that He loves my children and that He gave His life for them.
Learning to wait upon the Lord has become a sacred place for me. It has become a refining experience. Studying these general conference talks and focusing my gospel study has deepened my understanding of doctrine and strengthened my faith. I am learning line upon line, precept upon precept to trust in the Lord and in Heavenly Father’s plan of redemption while still praying that my children will choose to follow Jesus Christ and His gospel. And I am looking forward to the next general conference to add to my learning and my testimony.

Thirteen-year-old Jody Earnshaw climbs over the chute and with trembling knees carefully lowers herself onto the back of a holstein calf. Her hands, in green garden gloves, are wrapped in the rigging of the stamping animal. With a cry from her comrades and a shout from the stands, Jody explodes from the chute. Down the arena she goes—one second, two seconds—her hands still in the rigging as she fights to keep her balance on the twisting animal.

Not until eight seconds later does Jody slip from the holstein’s back, dodge its flying hooves, and roll into the dirt. She lies on the ground for only a moment before standing up. The crowd cheers wildly: “You did it! Jody, you did it!” A spectacular ride, her very first in rodeo competition.

Later, 18-year-old Scott Shurtz, the rodeo clown and director of the second annual rodeo, plunges from the horse chute on “Pepper.” They serpentine through the area, race for the fence line on the opposite side, glance off the signboard mounted on the fence, twist to the right, and buck all the way into the holding pen. The spectators shout in delight, and the other contestants scratch their heads: “How can we top that?” They can’t. Scott’s 100-point ten-second ride wins him the All-Around Cowboy award for 1979.

How do you stage a rodeo? The Woods Cross Second Ward, Woods Cross Utah Stake, begins by borrowing a truck and some park bleachers. Local farmers supply the stock such as calves, goats, pigs, and chickens. (Horse riders are limited to those who can furnish their own horses.) Someone’s mother sews a rodeo flag and different groups bake cookies, crush ice, chill soda pop, and heat barbecued beef. Others work the arena until the dirt is ankle-deep and mix it with sand so it is soft enough to break the hardest fall. Four loads of water are sprinkled on top to keep the dust down, and each contestant (or his parents) signs a written liability release form. Finally, the arena is filled with ward members, family, and friends. Photographers are also busy recording the action on film so it can be shown time and time again.

The rodeo is all homemade, all amateur, and all challenge. Although some of the participants have never even been on horseback, when the time for the rodeo arrives, nearly everyone finds out he has a little of the cowboy in him anyway!

The assignment to the Huntsville Second Ward road show committee was a challenging one: In just a few weeks, put on a great road show. And don’t spend a lot of money doing it.
“Our total budget consisted of $20 to $30,” said Becky Worthington, who was called as ward road show specialist.
It seemed like an impossible assignment. Costumes can cost a lot. Lumber and hardware for sets can cost a lot. Even tempera for painting cardboard can cost a lot. Some wards spend $30 or more just for a cast party.
“But we knew that if the youth of the ward got involved, they could make it work,” Sister Worthington said. She called a meeting to discuss the road show theme, “Future Fantasy.”
Someone suggested that the story take place in a city underneath the sea, and the idea caught on quickly.
“We could use strips of old sheets to look like waves.”
“At the space museum they’ve got a light that shines through water so you see waves projected on the wall. Maybe we could do that.”
“You could have a sea horse and an octopus.”
“We still need a plot. What’s the conflict?”
“How about pollution?”
“You could wear slime suits or something like that.”
“Here comes the slime! You could run off all the Primary kids with that.”
Sister Worthington had to whistle to get everyone to stop talking and pay attention.
“Okay. We’ve got some good ideas for the script. We know who the characters will be. Now let’s talk about costumes. We’ve only got $20 to spend.”
After more discussion, the group dismissed. But based on their ideas, costume making began right away. And by the time the script was finished and rehearsals were underway, costumes were ready. A Chicken of the Sea wore scuba fins, goggles, and a beak made of cardboard. Starfish dressed like movie stars and carried sunglasses with paper stars pasted on them. Girls with cardboard oyster shell hats carried white balloons for pearls. Cast members dressed like cowboys rode brooms with poster board sea horses taped on them. A fish net and some shells, borrowed from members who used to live in Hawaii, were pinned to curtains as a backdrop.
But perhaps most ingenious of all were the octopus costumes, made from black plastic trash bags and paper egg cartons.
“Everyone helped out and donated paper, fabric, paint, tape, and time,” Sister Worthington said. “But mostly the costumes were made out of things we had on hand. We tried to keep it simple. You can do a lot with a little if you think and plan.”
When the stake road shows were presented, the Second Ward won a superior rating, an award for best actor, and the award for best costumes as well. And the price tag? Just 23 dollars and 50 cents.