Gospel Story Finder

Brady insisted, however, that he was going to be baptized. He had been looking forward to it for a long time, even though his disease had caused him to be so weak that much of his life had been spent in hospitals. His father prayed and had a calm feeling that somehow Brady would be able to be baptized without drowning. So when Brady turned eight, Brother Blaser didn’t ask if it could be done, he just gave me the job of figuring out how to do it. Not able to get any information from Church headquarters about anyone with a tracheotomy being baptized, we tried waterproof tape on Brady’s skin, and it seemed to stick even when wet. The baptism was scheduled.
Because my faith was not as strong as Brady’s and his parents’, we took resuscitation equipment to the baptism. After the spiritual talks, everyone waited while we took the plastic tracheotomy tube out of Brady’s throat, leaving a hole which the tightly stretched layers of special tape held together to keep the water out. Brother Blaser carried his son into the baptismal font, where I was waiting dressed in white. A doctor isn’t often needed in the baptismal font, but my job that day was to help Brady keep water out of his nose and mouth and to be there in case something went wrong. Nothing did. The spirit was there as Brady was baptized a member of the Church.
Medically, the baptism was impossible. But it was accomplished because of the faith and determination of Brady Blaser and his parents.

Jane Allgood Bailey wasn’t about to give up the light of her new religion. She would not be defeated by the cold, starvation, and sickness on the plains of Wyoming. She grasped hands with other women to wade through icy streams. They came out on the other side with their clothes frozen to them, but they carried on. On the trek, her 18-year-old son, Langley, became ill and was so weak that he had to be pushed on the handcart much of the way. One morning he rose from his bed on the cart, which had frozen canvas for bedding, and he went ahead of the company and lay down under a sagebrush to die, feeling that he was too much of a burden. When his faithful mother found him, she scolded him and told him: “Get on the cart. I’ll help you, but you’re not giving up!” Then the family moved on with what was left of the Martin-Willey Handcart Company.

Upon arrival in the Salt Lake Valley, Langley was still alive! He was 18 years old and he weighed only 60 pounds. That 18-year-old boy was my great-grandfather. I’m grateful for the preservation of his young life and for the fortitude and stamina of his noble, courageous mother, who was a light to her family and kept her son going in spite of deathly odds.

President Boyd K. Packer has counseled us to have a hymn memorized so that when an inappropriate thought comes into our minds, we can replace it with a hymn. In applying this instruction, a friend of mine explained: “One day I left my office for lunch. After I had walked for about two blocks, I noticed that I had been humming ‘my song’: ‘I Am a Child of God.’ As I chained my thoughts back several hundred yards, I realized that as I had crossed the street from my office, a young woman, inappropriately clothed, had crossed in front of me. Immediately, subconsciously, the words and music of ‘I Am a Child of God’ began to roll through my mind—to displace inappropriate thoughts.” That day my friend learned a great lesson about his ability to control his thoughts.

President Hinckley: … She has run the house all these years. When our children were growing up, I was away much of the time on Church assignments. In the early days, when I had responsibility for the work in Asia, which I had for a long time, I would be gone for as long as two months at a time. We couldn’t telephone back and forth all the time in those days. She took care of everything. She ran the home. She ran everything and took care of the children.

We had a garden in our backyard. When I came home from one of my long assignments, I found that it had all been planted to lawn. She and the children had spaded up that backyard, sown lawn seed, and there was a beautiful lawn! The garden didn’t suffer, because we could plant another garden to the south of us. But that whole backyard became a beautiful patch of lawn.

That’s typical of the way she did things. She was independent and had a great eye for beauty.

While we look at Paul’s service, we are inspired and uplifted by our own “Pauls” in our day, who also serve, teach, and testify with love and gratitude amidst the challenges they face in their lives and in the lives of their loved ones. An experience I had nine years ago helped me to realize the importance of pressing toward the mark.

In 2012, as I walked for the first time into the general conference leadership meeting, I could not help feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. In my mind there was a voice persistently repeating, “You do not belong here! A serious mistake had been made!” Just as I was walking trying to find a place to sit, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland spotted me. He came to me and said, “Edward, it is good to see you here,” and he tenderly patted my face. I felt like a baby! His love and embrace warmed me up and helped me to feel the spirit of belonging, the spirit of brotherhood. On the following day, I observed Elder Holland doing the same thing he had done to me on the previous day, warmly patting then-Elder Dallin H. Oaks’s face, who is his senior!

At that moment I felt the Lord’s love through these men we sustain as prophets, seers, and revelators. Elder Holland, through his kind, natural actions, helped me to overcome my self-centeredness and my feelings of inadequacy. He helped me to focus on the sacred and joyful work to which I had been called—to bring souls to Christ. He, like Paul of old, pointed me to press toward the mark.

Before Elder M. Russell Ballard was an Apostle, he had an unusual experience on an airplane. He was flying to Salt Lake City on a very foggy day. The small plane held only four people. When they got close to the airport, the pilot radioed the control tower.
“We’re about to close the runway because the fog is so thick,” the air traffic controller told the pilot. “But I can talk you through the landing.”
The pilot asked Brother Ballard and the other passengers, “What do you want to do? The controller can guide us down. Or we can turn back and wait for the weather to clear in a day or two.” They decided to try to land in Salt Lake.
The controller could see the plane on his radar. He told the pilot when to lower the plane and when to turn. The pilot watched the plane’s controls carefully. He followed the controller’s directions exactly.
Finally the man in the front seat shouted, “I see the runway!”
They looked out the window. The runway was directly ahead. The nose of the plane was right on the centerline! They were so grateful that the controller guided them safely to the ground.
Brother Ballard thought about how this flight was like our lives. We can’t see or understand everything, so Heavenly Father has given us ways to get help. The prophet is like an air traffic controller. He gives us directions to return safely to Heavenly Father. We also have the Holy Ghost, the scriptures, and leaders and parents to guide us safely home.

After graduating from Brigham Young University several years ago, I was prompted by the Spirit to return to my hometown of Sanford, Maine, in the northeastern section of the United States. I felt reluctant to go. As a 27-year-old single woman, I knew that my most promising goals were marriage, further education, or a career in journalism. I was skeptical about finding any of those opportunities in Maine.
Despite my concerns, I headed back home with a feeling that the Lord wanted me there and with the hope that he would help me in my endeavors. Though the area was struggling economically, I was blessed to find a job as a reporter at a weekly newspaper.
I expressed my gratitude in prayer for finding a good job so quickly.
Even with my career under way, however, the goal of marriage continued to occupy my mind. As a lifelong member of the Church, I had learned the importance of eternal marriage all through my teenage dating years. I had always fully expected to have a temple marriage.
However, I had spent four years at Brigham Young University, where thousands of young Saints find their eternal mates, without being blessed with any marriage opportunities. As an African American at a predominantly Caucasian university, I did not find many dating partners who were seriously interested in marriage.
In Maine, my challenge was different: the area simply had very few Latter-day Saint men. I began dating a young man named James, a less-active member of the Church. When I learned that he still had a testimony of Jesus Christ and the gospel, I felt hope that he might come back to church. I prayed often that the Lord would help him do so.
As I began to fall in love with James, my prayers grew more desperate. He started to attend church regularly, but after a year he was still having challenges with the Word of Wisdom. He asked me several times to marry him, but I was hesitant to make a commitment under the circumstances. Nevertheless, I came to feel that James was the right person for me.
I eventually realized that I couldn’t keep putting off my decision indefinitely. Knowing that I did love James and believing that the Lord approved of our union, I consented to a civil marriage, with the intention that we would strive for a temple sealing later. My decision was bittersweet: I loved James, but I found it hard to accept that ours would be a lifelong marriage rather than an eternal one.
Still, I held fast to my decision. As I went to bed the night before the wedding, I began to feel uneasy and ill. I had heard of brides who get last-minute jitters, and I thought that might be happening to me. To my dismay, I discovered that instead of easing as the night progressed, the tension grew worse toward morning. Scenes flashed through my mind of what my future life might be like without a temple marriage. I could see myself in church alone or possibly not at all. I feared that one of us might die before we made it to the temple.
Thoroughly distraught and confused, I sought counsel from my bishop just hours before the wedding. As I talked with him and received a priesthood blessing, the Spirit bore witness to me that I shouldn’t go forward with my plans. To James’s great heartache and my own, I called off the wedding. Through my hurt, however, I felt a calming influence and an inner peace.
Crying and praying often, I spent the following days humbly reflecting on the situation and pondering what to do next. Instead of putting the Lord first in my decision making, I realized that I had put my desire for marriage first. Instead of having the faith to believe that the Lord would help me achieve the righteous goal of an eternal marriage, I had given up and convinced myself that a civil union was the best I could do in my circumstances.
I decided to put the Lord first in my life. As I prayed for forgiveness for my lack of faith and misguided sense of direction, I felt a burden lift, and a new sense of power began to grow within me. I knew that the Lord would carry me through my difficult situation. I was able to say, “Thy will be done,” even if it meant that I would not marry James.
I didn’t realize it at first, but James was going through a similar experience. He too made a decision to put the Lord first in his life. It was wonderful to see him take on a new glow as he became worthy in the eyes of the Lord. Shortly afterwards, he obtained the Melchizedek Priesthood and asked me to marry him in the Washington Temple.
Today, James and I are active members of the Sanford Ward in Maine. I am overwhelmed at the blessings the Lord has given me. I’m so grateful that he has greater insight than I do and knew that a temple marriage was a realistic expectation for me.

One Sunday I felt uncomfortable about going to meet with the members in Sada. I told my wife that I felt I would be letting them down if I did not go. “Ernie,” she replied, “if the Spirit is prompting you not to go, then you must listen to that warning.” I did—and my next visit to Sada proved the wisdom of her counsel. Had I visited that Sunday, I would have been caught up in a riot. Police used tear gas to break up an angry mob, and the Saints were forced to scatter when the gas drifted into the meetinghouse.

Several years ago, our family was excited when we learned that my wife, Terri, was expecting our fourth child. However, several months into the pregnancy, we learned that Terri had a potentially dangerous medical condition. The safest option was for her to be admitted to the hospital, where she could have constant care. She was confined to bed rest in an effort to continue the pregnancy as long as possible.
This became a dark and difficult time for our family, especially for Terri. She felt so alone. And I had the challenge of caring for three young children while working in my career and also serving as a bishop. Life seemed chaotic and difficult.
In her loneliness, Terri found solace in the words of a beautiful hymn:
I need thy presence ev’ry passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the tempter’s pow’r?
Who, like thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Thru cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me!1
Ultimately, emergency surgery was required to deliver our son Jace. But both mother and son were safely cared for because Terri was already in the hospital. We felt the Lord’s protection in our lives.
Jace was born four weeks early and placed in the newborn intensive care unit. We came home without our baby. During the month that followed, we made daily trips to the hospital. Life seemed to cycle to a low point.
Again, however, we witnessed the hand of the Lord. Jace progressed to the point where we were able to bring him home, a high point as we united as a family.
Then we learned that Jace had sagittal synostosis, a condition where the bones in the skull prematurely fuse together. The result is that a baby’s head cannot grow. The only treatment was to surgically remove a large portion of Jace’s skull when he was just three months old. We endured this challenge through prayer and priesthood blessings. Again we saw the hand of the Lord in our lives. Prayers were answered. Blessings were fulfilled. The surgery was a success. Life reached a high point once again.
What a roller-coaster ride! But the Lord taught us many lessons through this journey. We know He was with us along the way.
When Terri and I were going through our challenges, we found comfort in this statement from a prophet of God:
“I want you to know that there have always been some difficulties in mortal life, and there always will be. But knowing what we know, and living as we are supposed to live, there really is no place, no excuse, for pessimism and despair. …
“… I hope you won’t believe all the world’s difficulties have been wedged into your decade, or that things have never been worse than they are for you personally, or that they will never get better. I reassure you that things have been worse and they will always get better. They always do—especially when we live and love the gospel of Jesus Christ and give it a chance to flourish in our lives.”3

I never cared for household dusting. But one day, this simple act was the reason I was able to take my family to the temple.
I joined the Church in 1970. My family was involved in Primary, Relief Society, and youth programmes. I noticed that our branch president kept mentioning the word ‘genealogy’ every Sunday. I kept turning a blind eye; I was too busy; I would do it later.
One Sunday, we had a visiting speaker who challenged us to think about where we could begin finding information about our ancestors. I then remembered seeing my name and birth date in my great-aunt Lizzie’s birthday book when I was a child. I wondered where the book might now be, as she had died many years ago. Jessie (my mother’s cousin) might know because she knew Lizzie. But what was her address? I’d had no contact with her since I was a child.
The next morning, I was dusting. I can’t imagine why, as dusting was hardly a favourite pastime of mine. I picked up a beautiful wooden bowl that my husband had made for me before we married. Underneath, there was a piece of paper with Jessie’s address on it. I was stunned. Where did it come from? I didn’t question it; I sat down and wrote to Jessie there and then. Jessie wrote back that “no one else has asked for it, Edith, so it’s yours.” Within the week I had that book in my hands. It is now my treasured possession. It gave me a flying start to my research into my mother’s side of the family!
I’m still not much of a duster, but I’m ever so grateful for that prompting so long ago.

It was at this point, just two months after my first visit to the mission home, that I met my future husband. He was a freelance American photographer and writer traveling in France. The missionaries told him about me, and he decided to interview me for a possible article for the Church magazines. After talking with me about the Church, he asked if I had ever considered joining. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m really just curious.”
But as an afterthought, I reflected, “There is something unusual about your church. I always feel a sense of peace when I come to the mission home. Actually, I welcome reasons to come back.” Still, I insisted that my interest was only academic curiosity.
A few months later I decided to continue my thesis research by visiting the famous genealogical facilities in Salt Lake City. I arrived in Utah the day before President Joseph Fielding Smith’s funeral, and I went to the public viewing with an LDS girl I had corresponded with while I was in France. I was impressed by the lack of despair at the services.
During this time, the photographer I met in Paris returned to Salt Lake City, and we became reacquainted. I asked him to help proofread my thesis, and as time went on, he noticed my comments in the thesis becoming more and more positive—starting with “the Mormons believe …” and later expressing, without my realizing it, “We believe …”
One evening, he asked if I would like to take the missionary lessons. I hesitated and gave my former response, “I’m only curious.” But there was less certainty in my voice, so he suggested, “What have you got to lose?”
I smiled and said, “Well, nothing, I guess. OK.” Three weeks later, I was baptized, and the wagon wheels turned again as I became a pioneer myself—the only member of the Church in my family. Soon I would be privileged to give many of my ancestors the opportunity to choose to become members of the Church of Jesus Christ.
A year and a half after my baptism, the photographer and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Little did he know when he met me how the wagon wheels shown in a French documentary would affect his life.
Now it is 1997, the 150th anniversary of the pioneers entering the Salt Lake Valley, and as I tell my story I truly do feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunch the rocks and churn the dust in a deeply rutted trail. It is a day like many others, and I am pulling a handcart as part of the 1997 Sesquicentennial Mormon Trail Wagon Train on the old historic pioneer route near Big Sandy Crossing, Wyoming. During this reenactment, I am playing the part of an actual pioneer girl from France who joined the Church in Italy and came to Zion in the 1850s. It seems incredible that I am walking the same trail, breathing the same dust, and hearing the same sounds as she and so many other pioneers did so long ago.
As I walk, I remember the documentary I saw when I was a young girl in France, and I can feel the presence of the many Latter-day Saints who lived and died along this trail. However, the part I am playing is not just a story from our pioneer past, it is also my story—for I am a pioneer, too.

As spiritually uplifting as the youth conference was, it was still full of the kind of excitement and fun associated with any youth conference. During a practice take one afternoon, “Moroni” delivered his lines with stirring perfection. After he was finished, there was a moment of silence, and then an eruption of applause. Charlie Malolo, who played Anti-Nephi-Lehi, shouted above the clapping, “Moroni, I’d follow you anywhere!”

The two-day production ended with a battle scene at dawn. When the perfect light flooded the canyon where they were filming, the youth began to reenact a war. Suddenly, a “Lamanite’s” sword snapped in two. It was proof, said some of the “Nephites,” that the Lamanites were unjust in attacking the Nephites!

One of the most exciting things about the conference, of course, was the finished product. Instead of getting a traditional T-shirt or hat as a keepsake, the youth will have their own copy of the Book of Mormon movie to view again and again.

“I can’t wait to see the video when it’s done,” says Kelsie Cook. “I’m going to show it to my kids and grandkids and tell them that I learned the story and was part of reenacting it.”

There’s no doubt that this youth conference was a lot of work, and many leaders and youth sacrificed much to get ready. But being part of the reenactment made it all worth it.

“It is so impressive to see the story happen visually,” says Stacey. “It really helps me understand the Book of Mormon.”

I’ll never forget an experience I had at a mission conference in Australia a few years ago. One young man had such a special glow upon his face that my wife said to me, “I’ve never seen anyone sparkle with the truth as he does.”

When the meeting finished, before I could even leave the stand, this young man came up to me and said, “Elder Asay, may I speak with you?” I said to the young man, “Go down to the bishop’s office and wait; I’ll be there shortly.” He turned and walked down the aisle.

When I arrived at the office, he looked at me and said, “Elder Asay, you have forgotten me, haven’t you?” That made me feel terrible. I said, “Yes, I guess I have; please forgive me.”

Then he said, “Several years ago, I came to your office with my bishop and stake president. I came because I had done foolish things in high school; I had made myself unworthy of my priesthood, and I required some special cleanup and a special clearance before I could serve. In fact, you may recall that when I gave you a listing of my transgressions, you said, ‘I will never allow you to serve.’”

Then I remembered. He was the only one I had ever said those words to. But he cried, and his bishop cried, and his stake president cried, and they pleaded and they pleaded; and finally I weakened. I said, “Yes, you may, on two conditions: first, that you go and live every commandment strictly; you will cut no corners; and second, that you will seek to become the best missionary in your assigned mission.”

Well, after he had recalled all of that to my memory, he said, “Elder Asay, it thrilled me to know that you were coming. You see, next week I go home, and I just wanted to tell you that for two years now I haven’t stretched or bent or broken a single rule or commandment.” Then he added, “I may not be the best missionary in this mission, but I’m awfully close.”

I loved that. I embraced him and thanked him, and then after a tear or two, he turned to leave. As he stood there, he looked at me again and said, “Elder Asay, for the first time in many, many years I feel perfectly clean morally.” “You are,” I said. “You have been sanctified by your service. Now, please go home and stay clean.”

He has since been married in the temple; he is now a father, and is completing a professional degree.

“I needed a personal second witness of Jesus Christ,” says Jodi Burr of Danville, Pennsylvania. “I wanted to know Christ. I had no doubt of his reality and atonement, but I wanted to come to a knowledge of him as a person and as a loving God. As I reread the Book of Mormon, no individual verse or story provided what I was looking for. However, my knowledge of Christ formed piece by piece as I studied about him in the various Book of Mormon settings.
“I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting, and my soul was flooded with the Holy Spirit as I received what I had longed for—a second witness of Jesus Christ. After church, one sentence kept repeating itself in my thoughts: ‘I know the Master; I know the Master.’ This testimony is priceless to me. What I was given that day was exactly what I had been searching for—‘and it came to pass’ through reading the Book of Mormon.”

Tom was worried. He wished now that he had remembered what day it was when he first woke up. He could have pretended to be sick so he wouldn’t have to go to school, even though it would have meant staying in bed all day. But now he sat there at the table, staring at the darkening heap of brown sugar he had piled on his oatmeal. Suddenly his mother’s voice broke the silence. “You had better hurry, Tom, or you’ll miss the bus.” He sat up straight in his chair and began to gulp down the cereal that was now cold.
Upstairs he busied himself with dressing. Then he stepped out into the cold January morning. The weather did nothing to improve his spirits. The overcast sky was a dull gray, and a cold wind was blowing snow out of the northwest. It seemed that the only time it snowed big flakes was when it warmed up.
The bus was late that morning, and for a few happy moments Tom thought that school had been called off. Yet the roads were all plowed, and at last in the distance he recognized the yellow school bus. It was only half full when he got on, and most of the kids were in the front of the bus where it was warmer. He walked to the very back, then laid his books on the seat beside him to discourage anyone from sitting there. He didn’t feel much like talking.
When Jim Winters got on the bus, he spotted Tom right away, picked up Tom’s books, and sat down beside him. “Hi!” Tom nodded, wishing Jim would go away. “Do you think you can whip him?” Jim asked.
“Sure,” said Tom, although he didn’t like the idea of fighting. He wished that the gang had picked someone else as their leader, although he enjoyed the feeling of authority at times. Jim seemed to sense that Tom didn’t want to talk and kept quiet for the remainder of the ride. The bell rang as soon as the bus arrived, and the sound was like a last-minute reprieve. Tom even managed to smile at Miss Culler, their teacher, as he slid into his desk.
Tom went over again in his mind the plan the gang had decided upon to initiate the new boy Marty Simms. Jim Winters and Danny Ryan would tell the new boy at recess that it was his turn to haul wood for the school stove. Tom would be waiting when Marty went out back of the school to get the wood. Tom would tell Marty that if he wanted to get along in the school, he’d have to fight then and there.
The morning recess came all too soon. Pulling on his sweater, Tom slipped out the side door and around to the back of the building. The woodpile was still there, hidden from the school by the huge elm trees surrounding it. This was a pleasant spot in warm weather where the gang usually ate lunch. But today it was a desolate place, with the stiff tarpaulins, like ghostly shrouds, thrown over the piles of wood to keep them dry. Tom sat down on a chunk of wood that had worked loose from the pile and waited.
Marty came around the edge of the woodpile and stopped. Tom knew by the frightened look on the new boy’s face that he sensed he had been tricked. He mumbled something about fetching firewood, and Tom stepped in front of him. Tom could not help feeling sorry for this new boy. He hated himself for being there, but now the rest of the gang had arrived at the woodpile. He looked at Marty, whose face still had the look of a cornered animal, but his eyes shone with a certain pride and defiance that Tom found disconcerting. “You’re going to have to fight me if you want to stay in this school,” Tom declared. Marty said nothing, but moved back several steps and raised his hands.
The boys circled each other there in the shadow of the woodpile, oblivious to the shouting around them. The smaller boy’s arms struck out, but Tom managed to dodge each blow, so that the jabs hit only empty space. Tom waited for an opening and when it came, he smacked the new boy hard. Marty staggered a moment, then grabbed Tom, and they both fell to the ground. They rolled in the snow pounding each other. Tom’s weight soon began to tell. Finally the smaller boy blurted out, “I give! I give!” and Tom stood up, then watched the retreating figure. He did not hear the cheers of the other boys or feel them pounding him on the back. He didn’t feel the least bit like a hero; instead he felt ashamed of himself. Tom vowed that if he had anything to say about it, Marty would be the last new boy coming to the school that had to undergo such rough treatment.
The bell rang to signal the end of recess, and the gang began to drift toward the schoolhouse. Tom could tell that Miss Culler had already heard of the fight, for she gave him a strange look as he sat down at his desk. Finally she walked down the aisle, looked at Marty and asked, “What happened to you at recess?”
Marty looked away from her and mumbled, “I fell on the woodpile, Miss Culler.” She stood for a moment in front of him, then wheeled around and walked briskly to her desk. Tom knew that she was angry and her anger only made him feel worse.
The next several days seemed like an eternity. Marty kept to himself, and Tom did not have a chance to speak to him. On the third day the sun came out, and by noon the snow was soft and packy. It was ideal for making snowballs and the gang soon had a fort built of snow. Tom and Jim were chosen to choose up sides for a snowball fight. It was Tom’s turn first, and as he looked out at the eager faces, he caught a glimpse of Marty standing alone near the corner of the schoolhouse. His voice rang loud and clear across the schoolyard, “I’ll take Marty Simms!”
Marty stood still for a moment as though he couldn’t believe his ears, then proudly he walked forward to take his place with the gang behind the fort.

Adrian Juchau says, “The competition is so much fun because everyone shows so much support. I was a little afraid to compete, until I actually tried it and found out that people are really having a good time.” In fact, Adrian had so much fun that he decided he would be at every event whether he was participating or not.
“At the Ping-Pong tournament, I was more nervous than the people who were playing,” he admits.
Because the competition takes place over a three-week period, the youth spend a lot of time together, working out, rehearsing, competing, and just “hanging out” waiting for the next event.
“My friends and I wanted to enter the group vocal-music competition. We just couldn’t find a song we liked, so we spent five hours looking together. Finally, we turned on the radio and heard the perfect song. We joked that it must be true inspiration,” says Mia Maid Marlowe Ziegler.
Cheering on your competitors in other wards, spending five hours to find the perfect piece of music, or traveling back and forth to different church buildings for three weeks every year, might seem like a lot of effort, and it is. But in Glendale, most everyone says, “It’s all worth it.”
When the contest finally ends for another year, ribbons and medals are given in every competition, with separate categories for boys and girls. Nearly everyone wins at least one award, and lots of people have several. Yet no one really seems to notice. Everyone has won other things that seem much more important: friendship built on a gospel foundation, love for fellow competitors, and an appreciation for the talents of others.
“I wanted to learn how to play the piano blindfolded, and now I can,” says Adrian, a skill that, by all accounts, is a new one in the stake.
“I would never have learned how to build that cabinet without the competition as a goal,” adds Jared Hall.
Paul Jenkins competed with a good friend. “There aren’t any bad feelings,” he says. “We both knew we’d do well, and we did.”
Those sentiments are echoed by many other participants and can be seen in the way everyone gets along throughout the various competitions. On performing and fine arts night, while one girl is being congratulated on an exemplary piano performance, another is being cheered up by friends who realize she wanted to do better on her vocal solo. Boys good-naturedly tease each other about who is going to win the art competition, but then wish each other good luck. On track-and-field day, several girls laugh about deciding to cross the finish line together in a race so they can all come in first. The list goes on.
And although the competition has been going on for longer than any of these participants can remember, no one really remembers past winners.
Jessica Forsberg, a 16-year-old whose talents shine brightest on track-and-field events, sums it up best. Still breathless from a race, she says, “When you cross that finish line, even if you didn’t win, you feel like you’ve succeeded. Winning isn’t everything; it’s just for fun.”
Competing just for fun? Focusing on people rather than achievements? Using competition as an incentive to excel without hurting people’s feelings? Some might think those things are too good to be true. But if you live in the Glendale Arizona Stake, it’s just how things are done.
Here are some tips, gathered from youth and leaders in Glendale, on holding your own competition:
Start small. The Glendale competition started as a one-afternoon event and has grown over a period of 25 years. Give your stake the time to find out what works and what is comfortable for everyone.
Plan, plan, plan. Try to anticipate every challenge in planning your event. Think of all the things you will need to buy, borrow, or reserve to make your competition a success.
Ask for help. In Glendale, the stake’s Young Adult ward helps with judging and organizational tasks. Ask for help from people outside the stake’s youth program if you think you will need more manpower.
Encourage everyone to participate. The Glendale youth agree that meeting and making new friends is what makes the competition fun. Encourage everyone to come—even if it’s just to watch.
What do the Glendale youth do at their competition? Here’s a complete list:
Volleyball
Bike Racing
Racquetball
Table Tennis
Public Speaking
Chess
Scholastics
Sewing—Quilts
Sewing—Clothes
Sewing—Other
Cooking—Bread and Rolls
Cooking—Desserts
Cooking—Main Dish
Painting/Drawing
Crafts
Woodworking
Track and Field—Various Events
Performing Arts—Vocal Music
Performing Arts—Instrumental Music
Performing Arts—Dance

[One young man] and another Aaronic Priesthood holder were assigned to administer the sacrament to a man who was homebound and very sick. They arrived at his home not realizing that recent medical treatments prevented him from eating any food—even a piece of the sacrament bread. After blessing the bread, the young man presented the sacrament to the frail man. He took a piece of the blessed bread, waited a moment, and then held it against his lips. The young man said when he saw this faithful brother express his reverence for the sacrament, he felt as though he were watching him kiss the feet of the Savior. He could tell that he loved Him.
The significance of the sacrament was impressed upon that young man in an unforgettable way that day. You will have sacred experiences, just as this young man did.

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

David O. McKay loved to play baseball. Once, when he was at bat, the umpire called, “Strike two.” The pitcher thought that it was strike three and became angry, threatening to crack the bat over David’s head. Calmly David replied, “The umpire called only two strikes. Go back to the pitcher’s mound and try to get me out. You have one more chance.” On the next pitch, David got a two-base hit and then scored the winning run! Everyone cheered for him. They were glad that he had stood up to the bully when he knew that he was in the right.

I was born and brought up in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya. As a young child, my family and I attended church and I was an altar boy. (This is where I learned to speak English.) We attended regularly, but over time I became discouraged with religion and promised myself that I would never be a part of an organized religion again.
As an adult I lived on the streets. I ate and clothed myself from items I found in rubbish bins. I worked at recycling but became deeply involved in the slum culture of drugs—selling and smoking marijuana on a regular basis. I married but struggled to care for and provide for my wife.
One day, as I was going through the recyclables, I came across a book. It was the Book of Mormon. It was dirty and soiled, so I threw it back into the bin and went on with my work. Sometime later, I was going through a different recyclables bin and came upon the very same book. It was still in poor shape, but I thought it might have some value if I were to sell it to someone—so I threw it in with my pile of recyclables.
Then the rainy season came—and one day, when returning to my pile of goods, there was the Book of Mormon sitting right on the very top, rinsed clean by the rains. The pages had been washed and were fluttering dry in the breeze. It was in much better condition than I had first found it. At that moment it struck me that this book was in some way “self-preserving”—especially since it had crossed into my life now three times. I decided to take it home, where I put in on a small shelf in my shack. There it sat for almost a year.
One day as I was spraying insecticide in my shack, I moved a few items and again noticed the book. This time I opened it and read the cover page. Then the next page and the next and the next. I was intrigued by the story of the angel Moroni appearing to the young boy Joseph Smith. I read a little further and found myself completely engrossed. For the next ten days I read the book, and for some curious reason I felt a strong urge to stop smoking marijuana. Reading the book took my mind off my need for the drug. My skin started itching and burning—and I could not sleep. But as I read the Book of Mormon, this agony was relieved, and I kept reading.
I got to 3 Nephi 27 and read: “Therefore, whatsoever ye shall do, ye shall do it in my name; therefore ye shall call the church in my name; and ye shall call upon the Father in my name that he will bless the church for my sake.
“And how be it my church save it be called in my name? For if a church be called in Moses’ name then it be Moses’ church; or if it be called in the name of a man then it be the church of a man; but if it be called in my name then it is my church, if it so be that they are built upon my gospel” (3 Nephi 27:7–8).
That’s it I thought! I must look for a church that goes by the name of Jesus Christ. But no matter how long I searched, I could not find it. For seven years, I continued my quest. My friends kept trying to get me to return to my old lifestyle and smoke with them, but I refused—for I had given that life up for good!
By this time, I had become employed as a security guard. One Sunday—on election day—I went to vote during my lunch hour. As I got to the Catholic Church building where the voting was being held, I noticed a placard directing members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to meet at a certain location for transport to a conference some distance away. I literally ran to this place and caught the last man getting on the bus. “Where is this church?” I asked him. “I want to be a member!” The man gave me contact information for the missionaries and took my telephone number. He said he would pass my information along to the elders.
A few days later, I received a call from a good missionary, Elder Egbert Brandin. He and his companion came and taught me about the plan of salvation—and I knew immediately that this is the true Church of God. Shortly afterward, I entered the waters of baptism and was washed clean—just like my copy of the Book of Mormon.