Gospel Story Finder

My decision stunned my family. My older brother declared that if I went on a mission, I should not plan on having anything to do with my family in the future.
But as Nephi promised, the Lord prepared a way for me to do what He asked (see 1 Ne. 3:7). I left for the Taiwan Taichung Mission in May 1996. Right before I left, my brother held me in his arms and tearfully told me that he opposed my going because he hated to lose me. Throughout my mission, my family gave me their full support.
Serving a mission changed my life. I came to understand more clearly my relationship with Heavenly Father. My testimony grew, and the significance of the work, of bringing souls to Jesus Christ, became eternally impressed on my mind and heart.
What is most dear to me now that I have completed my mission is the promise I made to God that I would endure to the end. I remember my mission president’s words as a group of us were soon to be released. He said he wanted us to stay worthy so we could all be together again in heaven someday. I have thought of this challenge often, especially during times of trial.
My heart is filled with gratitude. I am grateful that God has protected me and provided me with learning experiences. Many of these experiences were surprising and unexpected, but they all have stretched me into becoming more like the servant of the Lord I so much want to be.

We had long had a problem planning spiritual, enriching family home evenings for our young children, ages two, three, and five. Then my husband suggested basing our weekly lessons on the Articles of Faith. He drew a picture chart of the first article of faith and helped the children “read” it, going over it each evening before family prayers. Within a week they had it memorized, even the two-year-old. Then, each family home evening that month focused on the concepts in that article of faith. Each month we learn a new article of faith. This approach allows us to easily plan our home evenings a month in advance, and the children really enjoy memorizing the Articles of Faith and learning the principles of the gospel.

Others along the way helped me on my personal journey with the Book of Mormon. My first seminary teacher shared her experience as a young missionary wanting to know if the Book of Mormon was true. She told of reading King Benjamin’s speech and in her mind’s eye seeing King Benjamin standing on his tower and hearing him deliver that great sermon. Her testimony, accompanied by the Spirit, left a deep impression upon my mind.
I remember the summer before entering college having the chance to go to Monument Valley to work on the first high school built there for the Navajo people. As I was about to leave home, my father asked me if I was going to take my Book of Mormon. I hadn’t thought to, but I paid heed to his question. I remember lying in my bunk late at night at the construction site and feeling the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon.
I remember as a young missionary in the Great Lakes Mission coming to that great knowledge and absolute testimony that the Book of Mormon was another witness of another nation that Jesus is the Christ and that this Church is true. From those experiences there burns in my heart today that divine witness of the message of the Book of Mormon, of Christ as our Savior and Redeemer, and of the Restoration of His Church in these latter days.
I want to share with you some of the great blessings the Book of Mormon can bring to us. The Book of Mormon can and does change lives. After our son John received his mission call to Japan, he said to me, “Dad, before I enter the Missionary Training Center, I am going to read the Book of Mormon twice.” I said to John, “That is quite a demanding goal.” I felt his resolve and made the decision to follow his example. I began reading early each morning. A few days later when I came home from work, John said to me, “I caught up with you today.” I asked, “What do you mean?” His response: “I caught up to where you are in the Book of Mormon. You left it open on your desk.” The next morning after my reading, I felt inspired to turn about 150 pages past where I was. I left my Book of Mormon open where he could not miss it and went to work. After a meeting that morning, I checked my voice mail. The very first message said, “Yeah, sure, Dad!”
Why this story? As I watched my son read from the Book of Mormon, I began to see a special change in his life as he prepared to enter the Missionary Training Center. That experience has anchored my son to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I recall an experience with a zone leader in England who came to me during the lunch break at zone conference. He said, “We are teaching a lady who is blind and nearly deaf. She wants to know if the Book of Mormon is true. What shall we do?” I did not have an answer at that moment, but I said, “I will let you know after our conference.” During the afternoon session I had the distinct impression come as to how to help her. After the meeting I said to the zone leader, “Have this sister hold her copy of the Book of Mormon and turn its pages very slowly. When she has done this, have her ask if it is true.” Though she could not read nor hear the words, she felt the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon, and it changed her life.

One day there was a big storm. My friend’s basement filled with water. They had to get rid of a lot of stuff. My friend lost all of her summer clothes except for one pair of pants. My mom, sister, and I decided to help. We made dinner and gave them money to help buy some clothes for my friend. We also got a clean-up kit from the Church. My friend’s mom cried when we took the things over. When I handed her the money and dinner, I felt the Spirit and I felt my testimony of service grow in my heart. I know we did the right thing. It has made me want to serve more.

Just as his star seemed to be shining brightest at the start of his senior season, Devin began to experience tremendous back pains that persisted for several weeks. Then tragedy struck. While going up for a slam dunk in his first league game, Devin came down hard and grimaced in pain. After some moments of silent concern, he slowly got up. Holding his hands on the small part of his back, he was barely able to leave the floor on his own power.
As I watched him sit on the bench during the remainder of the game, I thought to myself, “All the desire to be a winner and all the ability in the world is no good to a man with a back that cannot bear the stress and strain of competitive basketball.”
After the game I walked with him to the waiting bus. Even though he was in pain, he was happier than I thought he could be. His positive winning spirit left no room for discouragement. He sensed my concern and said, “Pop, don’t worry. I’ll be all right.” But I did worry. Only a father knows how I worried.
After arriving home I retired, but I was not able to sleep. I arose and sat alone in a dark front room, sometimes thinking and sometimes praying.
For the next several days, Devin’s back was in my every prayer and in his own. He asked for and I gave him a father’s blessing. With the faith of a winner and a strong back brace, Devin was again able to play and play and play.

I was going to Arkansas to do one particular story. Period. But the flight schedules left me just enough time to do an additional story. So I asked Monty, my local contact, if he had any suggestions.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “since you asked—how about Rochelle Abram up in Bentonville?”
I had never worked with Monty before. Did he really know what kind of story I was looking for? I wasn’t completely sure myself.
What I didn’t want was to put some super-gifted super-achiever on a pedestal and make everybody else feel inadequate. Maybe I was just looking for an ordinary kid who has some qualities worth writing about.
I grabbed pencil and paper. “So tell me about Rochelle, Monty.”
He began, and mentally I responded to each point. “… multi-talented …” (The Church has lots of multi-talented kids.) “… state championships in gymnastics …” (We’ve done gymnast stories.) “… has done very well scholastically …” (That’s better, but—) “… a fine influence among the youth here …” (Okay. Now I’m listening.)
On the map, the road between Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and Bentonville looks fairly straight. In reality, it has more twists and turns than a soap opera plot, more bad grades than my fifth-grade report card. But since it winds among beautiful green hills, past some delightful little towns and villages, you don’t mind too much.
With Monty as guide, we found the Abram home, nestled among tall trees on Trail’s End Road, the driveway full of cars. This was Rochelle’s graduation night. Family and friends had started to gather, and it promised to be a little hectic.
Jerry Abram, Rochelle’s dad, greeted us warmly, pulled us into the house with a car salesman’s handshake, and introduced me to some of the family as we moved through the living room. A young woman approached from a hallway and he announced, “This is Rochelle.”
I doubted that boys had to be bribed to take her to the prom. Light blue-green eyes, warm smile and perfect white teeth, reddish-blond hair framing an oval face and fair complexion—Jed, my photographer, was going to have an easy time of it. But my anxiety about trying to do a story on a too-perfect girl had increased.
We discussed a few details, like what she would wear for the photographer and how much time we had before she had to go to commencement exercises. Then we went out onto the deck at the back of the house and sat down at a wrought iron table. It was after 5:00 P.M., and the tall trees that surround the house cast lacy shadows over us. I turned on my tape recorder, and we began to talk while Jed circled about, taking picture after picture.
First, just to break the ice, we talked about school and friends. I learned that Rochelle’s circle of friends includes LDS youth in the larger town of Fayetteville, 30 minutes away. “We just get together on weekends and do stuff and have a lot of fun.” Like what? “Just about everything. We like to hike and camp and fish and do all the tomboyish things,” she laughs. “We’ve also had dinner parties with the guys.” Pretty normal so far.
Before coming to Arkansas, I had talked some more to Monty and others about Rochelle, and everybody mentioned gymnastics. So I asked, and learned that she started in the sixth grade and began competing in seventh grade. “And you took state honors—first place,” I prompted.
“Yes, I got first place in uneven bars in the state high school competitions last year and this year.” She paused. “And I got first place in floor exercises in the USGF (U.S. Gymnastics Federation) competition this year.” Another slight pause. “I enjoy it; it’s a lot of fun.”
Fun? The closest I’ve come to a back flip was on an icy morning a few winters ago. But I know that even for the talented, gymnastics training is punishingly difficult. “What has it done for you?”
“It’s taken up a lot of my time, and it’s a lot of hard work, but it teaches you patience and endurance. It’s kind of hard sometimes because you want to learn a trick and be good, but you have to work at it. And it’s really discouraging sometimes. But it’s given me more confidence in myself because when you do well you feel better about yourself.”
As Rochelle talked, I studied her face and listened to the inflections in her voice. No hint of false modesty. Others confirmed that she doesn’t talk freely about her accomplishments, even to her parents. You get the impression that she does things for the joy of doing—not for the trophies and certificates, but for the satisfaction of tackling something tough and doing it as well as she possibly can.
She treats school the same way, taking the challenging advanced placement courses instead of going for the easy A. I commented on the fact that she would be attending BYU on a four-year academic scholarship instead of going to some college on a gymnastics scholarship. She just laughed. Gymnastics may be fun and challenging, but it isn’t her life. Rochelle will be studying things like biology and chemistry. “I want to pursue a career in a health-related field, probably in some area of research,” she said.
What does she see herself doing ten years down the road? “Hopefully a mission, marriage, and a family.”
We took a break for a few minutes. Jed needed photos in a different setting, and I wanted to talk to Rochelle’s parents.
Jerry Abram came out and sat down. “Rochelle is not a spectator; she is a participant,” he said when I asked him to sum up his daughter. “I don’t know what she’ll contribute to the Church—whether she’ll ever be a Relief Society or Young Women president—but I know what she’ll contribute to other people. She always has time for others.”
For example? “In our stake there was a young man, a ninth grader, who was not participating. So Rochelle went to his house every morning, woke him up if necessary, and took him to early-morning seminary. It wasn’t an assignment; she just did it. I asked her about it, and she said, ‘It’s there to do.’”
When Jerry Abram talks about his daughter, there is both pride and some wonder in his voice as he discusses her skills and accomplishments. But it was when we talked about her qualities that his eyes became moist, his voice slightly husky. Asked about Rochelle’s spiritual gifts, he said, “She excels in the same way. She craves spiritual knowledge.”
I asked Rochelle’s mother, Mary, what her daughter’s best quality is. Her first thought was, “She is a true, sincere friend.” Then, as she continued to speak about Rochelle’s relationships with others: “It’s her commitment to Christ and to gospel standards.”
Commitment to Christ. I thought back on something that everyone but Rochelle had talked about so far—the death of Rochelle’s fraternal twin sister, Rhonda, in an auto accident just 11 months earlier.
When Rhonda was killed, two other girls also died in the one-car rollover. Both of them, Kathryn and Michele, were also LDS and close friends of both of the Abram sisters. The tragedy shook the town. Yet the Christ-centered faith of Rochelle and her family not only carried them through, but became a blessing to many others.
Hundreds of townspeople attended the joint funeral for Rhonda and Kathryn that was held in the LDS chapel. Michele’s funeral was two days later. Many commented afterward that they had always been taught that Mormons are not Christians. Now they knew otherwise. And a dozen or so have since come into the Church after being fellowshipped by Rochelle and her family.
A little later in the evening Rochelle and I talked again. The shadows had lengthened further and a light breeze toyed idly with the leaves. Through the closed glass doors you could faintly hear the growing crowd of friends talking and laughing. But out where we were it was quiet enough to hear the calls of insects and birds.
“Do you mind if we talk about Rhonda for a minute?”
Her gaze was direct and open as she said that was fine.
I asked her how her sister’s death had affected her.
“It makes me want to be a better person. She was such a great example—almost perfect.”
Like many of her answers it was short and to the point. I guess I could have followed up, tried to draw her out. But her parents had commented on how deeply she has felt the loss of her sister and how private she is about her grief. What would be the point in prying further? Instead, after a short silence, for some reason I changed the subject and asked, “What do you fear most?”
This time she paused. Her soft voice took on a slightly different quality as she answered. “Not being accepted, I guess.”
The surprise must have registered on my face. She laughed at herself and at her answer, as though she realized how silly it might sound to someone else, someone aware of her accomplishments.
I sat back and looked at this young woman from a small town in the northwest corner of Arkansas. Rochelle Abram—who wins titles in gymnastics. Loves to swim in the creek with family and friends. Is graduating with high honors. Recently shot a hole in her brother’s bedroom window with a BB gun while trying to hit a slow-flying bug. Eats peanut butter and jelly for Thanksgiving dinner because she doesn’t like meat and vegetables. Needed two full days to clean her room before company came.
It was time for Rochelle to go into the house and finish getting ready for her graduation. I looked down at my tape recorder and notebook and thought about the story contained on tape, on paper, and in my memory. Monty was right. She is worth writing about. Hooray for anybody who has gifts, develops them as well as possible, and is modest about them. Three cheers for those who accomplish things for the sheer joy of doing.
But far more importantly, I decided Rochelle was worth writing about because she excels in some ways that everyone can excel in: commitment to Jesus Christ and his gospel, putting aside our own fears and tragedies and reaching out to others. Even a Rochelle Abram sometimes worries about acceptance. It’s a natural fear most of us have. But instead of holding back, afraid to stand out, she goes ahead and does when “it’s there to be done.”
Next time Monty recommends a story, I’m ready to listen.

Sean Covey, one of our fine young players, is now serving a mission in South Africa. He is an excellent young quarterback prospect who I’m sure you will be hearing more about in future years. I have a neighbor, Jon Collins, who is a great friend of Sean’s and is serving a mission in Scotland. Jon’s mother related a story regarding Sean and Jon. Sean recently had written a letter to Jon in Scotland and shared with him the importance of his mission. He told Jon in his letter, “Just think, this weekend BYU will be opening the football season in Pittsburgh before 50,000 fans. If I were home, I would be there with the team, being a part of this very thrilling experience. Instead, I will be baptizing a lady and her daughter. I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything in the world.”

I remember a bishop who treated me as if I were already what I had the potential to become in priesthood power. He called me one Sunday when I was a priest. He said he needed me to be his companion to visit some members of our ward. He made it sound as if I were his only hope for success. He didn’t need me. He had excellent counselors in his bishopric.
We visited a penniless and hungry widow. He wanted me to help him reach her heart, challenge her to make and use a budget, and promise her that she could rise to be in a position not only to take care of herself but also to help others.
We went next to comfort two little girls living in a difficult situation. As we walked away, the bishop said quietly to me, “Those children will never forget that we came to them.”
At the next house, I saw how to invite a less-active man to come back to the Lord by convincing him the ward members needed him.
That bishop was a Melchizedek Priesthood holder who was raising my sights and giving me a boost by example. He taught me to have the power and the courage to go anywhere in service for the Lord. He is long gone to his reward, but I still remember him because he reached down to lift me up when I was an inexperienced Aaronic Priesthood holder. I learned later that he saw me on a future priesthood path of greater responsibilities, then beyond my own vision.

Vitaly Yemtsov served in the Soviet army on the East German side of the Berlin Wall in 1988. “I had a normal childhood,” Brother Yemtsov says, “but when I lived in Germany, I saw how families suffered under a foreign government. I felt bad for them. Soldiers often treated them harshly. After that experience, I wanted to have a better family life than those I saw, better even than the family in which I grew up.”
After his service in the army, Vitaly Yemtsov and a childhood friend became dissatisfied with the spiritual emptiness they felt and dedicated themselves to finding the truth. Both quickly accepted the restored gospel just months after the Church was introduced in Kharkov. “When I met the missionaries, I finally found spiritual food, especially for the family,” he says. “I found what is lacking all around us.”
However, faith does not free Brother Yemtsov and his wife, Lyudmila, from the family-threatening pressures and challenges of life. Within 18 months, both left well-paying jobs that required too much sacrifice of family time. Both found new jobs offering comparable salaries. Even so, everyday life often makes it difficult to focus on the family. Brother Yemtsov works nine hours a day, six days a week painting and repairing cars. Sister Yemtsova until recently worked as a warehouse manager. She now works at a care center for the elderly. In addition, Vitaly serves as branch president and as an institute teacher, and Lyudmila is district Young Women president.
Like others in their country, the Yemtsovs continually face challenges stemming from influences that subtly work against the family. Brother Yemtsov often feels isolated at work as the only employee who neither smokes nor drinks. “Everyone was surprised when I told them that I don’t do any of that,” he says. “Some considered me crazy in the beginning. Most respect me for it though.”
Alcoholism is a serious problem in Ukraine; some people do not know anyone who does not drink. Smoking is almost as widespread, especially among youth. Pornographic images are visible on advertisements and are for sale on almost any street corner.
“There is temptation everywhere,” says Sister Yemtsova. “Satan works diligently here. But the Spirit works diligently too. We find that it is not just how much time we spend together as a family but also what we do during that time that is important. And we make it a priority to do things that strengthen our bond.” For example, they say that family prayer and scripture study have become crucial, daily reminders of the importance of family happiness.
“The Lord said, ‘Stand ye in holy places,’” says Brother Yemtsov (D&C 87:8). “We try to make our home our own holy place so time spent together here will bring us closer.”

As a young man I was given a very strong written admonition to prove myself a faithful and obedient son so that as I grew older and whenever I needed counsel and advice, I should go to my parents, though they be “bowed in years,” to receive from them wisdom, comfort, and guidance. My father passed away over 20 years ago, having been a great and exemplary source of wisdom for me all the days of my life, and we just laid my 101-year-old mother to rest beside her eternal companion last Monday. In her 100th year, she affirmed her lifelong testimony in these words: “The gospel is a way of life; it is part of the plan to help us avoid bitterness. More than ever, I believe that this life is good but that the next life is better” (in “Growing Old Graciously: Lessons from a Centenarian,” Religious Educator 5, no. 1 [2004], 11).
My mother often told me that she prayed for me and for our family every day. As she came closer and closer to the veil, her prayers were especially fervent and meaningful to me. Both of my parents, as well as my dear parents-in-law, endured or are enduring to the end in righteous paths, leaving a legacy of faithful dedication for all their posterity to follow.

“Visits to this house are certainly a waste of time,” my visiting teaching companion said as we knocked on the weather-beaten door of a small and sagging house located behind another house. “We never find anyone home.”
I glanced at her and nodded, as the peeling paint dug deep into my knuckles with the repeated firm raps; but we lingered, hoping today might be different. It wasn’t, and we finally walked back along the heavily overgrown path to the street.
“Well, we’re really (see Matt. 5:41) trying to see this woman,” I said as we climbed into the car. “Even locating her place was a monumental accomplishment.”
Hidden from view by a larger house in front of it, the shabby little place had been difficult to find when we had made our first visit six months earlier. Altered ward boundaries had brought a few new families into our ward from another ward, and this sister had been added to our district. When the address seemed incorrect, we had persisted, and after stopping at two service stations and inquiring at several doors, we had finally followed the overgrown path and discovered the small house. But that discovery was followed only by disappointing silence.
Since no telephone number showed on Judy Kearns’s information card, we had checked the directory service, only to learn that she had an unlisted number. A look at the ward records showed us that she was an inactive convert of three years who was supporting two small children by herself.
With each visit we had left a friendly note asking her to telephone us, but there was no response. We had even left some fruit at her door and had stopped by on a weekend, but we were always met by empty silence.
“Just another lost cause,” I thought as we drove down the street toward home, but my conscience nagged. Had we really gone the extra mile? What was the extra mile? By gospel standards, it was not just filling an assignment, I remembered, but caring enough to magnify an opportunity to successful fulfillment. True, we had put our toes into the extra mile, but that was only a tiny distance, and full steps could be taken.
That night, after four telephone calls, I managed to locate the visiting teacher from Judy’s previous ward. The information I got was vague, but I did get the unlisted telephone number. As I hung up, a little stirring of excitement lifted my spirits, and I eagerly dialed her number, only to be met again with the disappointment of prolonged, hollow, unanswered ringing. I tried again the next day and evening, but with no success.
While I was on my way home from a late-afternoon dental appointment several days later, the thought flashed into my mind that Judy, too, might be on her way home. It was the end of the normal working day, and she must go home once in a while. Would she resent a visit at such an inconvenient time? On a quick impulse I swung the car in her direction and decided to take a chance. Stopping my car at the curb and looking down the long driveway, I could see the usual empty car stall, so I switched off the motor to wait. When twenty-five minutes had ticked by I shifted nervously, knowing my own family would be arriving home wondering where Mom and the usual dinner aroma was.
Uneasily I waited another fifteen minutes and was just getting ready to leave when an old, weather-beaten Volkswagen pulled into the driveway and filled the stall. By the time Judy had unloaded two small children from the car and located her house key, I was on the porch explaining who I was and expressing delight in finally having the opportunity to meet her. She responded with a cool, uncomfortable attitude, but my friendliness won and she invited me into her small living room.
I initially centered my attention on her young son and daughter, while they showed me their art work from nursery school and described in detail the skinned knee under Gary’s bandage. This gave Judy a chance to relax and observe me. Slowly she warmed up to my interest in her children, and she hesitantly began sharing some of her struggles to protect them from the ravages of a shattered marriage. I learned that her husband had left her and the children to find what he called his “personal freedom.” In her determination to survive, she began working at a job that did not pay much and was taking night classes to become a dental assistant. She had placed the children in a neighborhood christian church school, and was attending Sunday services there as well. It really didn’t matter where they went to church, she said, as long as they went.
My visit was short, but I had established a relationship and made an appointment for another visit on her day off. At the door, I looked straight into her eyes and bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel, and begged her not to deprive her precious children of the chance to share in its beauty. Her eyes filled with tears and I squeezed her hand as I left.
Anxious to take another step for Judy, I tried to communicate with her home teacher. After three telephone calls devoted to locating someone with the latest list of assignments, I learned that the ward executive secretary would be the one with whom to talk. He wasn’t home when I called, and after repeated attempts all evening, I finally gave up.
Two nights later, I tried again, only to find he had left her records at church and that I should call the clerk’s office in a few nights to get the information. I called as suggested, but no one answered, and I began wondering if it really was important to contact the home teacher.
My visiting teaching companion was delighted when she learned I had actually made an appointment with Judy, and she brought new enthusiasm to our efforts as we approached the little house in the rear. Judy was waiting for us and received, with appreciation, the still warm cookies we had baked for her. The first part of our visit was light and friendly, but then Judy began sharing her fears and concerns for her children, the devastating feelings of inadequacy she had, and the agony of her financial struggles. We offered sympathy and dried her tears, but I knew more must be done. At the door I asked about her home teacher and learned she had never seen one since coming into our ward boundary. I was indignant! How could six months have passed without an assignment?
Sunday morning I was at church early to talk with the executive secretary. On investigation, we found that Ray Greer, a responsible, dedicated elder, was Judy’s assigned home teacher. I was baffled, and tried to locate him at church, only to learn he was on a two-week vacation. I was amazed at how many obstacles cluttered this extra mile I was trying to walk and I determined not to let them stop me. With that in mind, I contacted Ray on the day he arrived home. As I asked my questions, he looked at me in blank confusion. He knew nothing of Judy Kearns, or of an assignment to be her home teacher, and we quickly realized that the communication chain had dropped a link someplace along the way. I handed him Judy’s unlisted number, gave him notes on my information, and told him my urgent concern for her. He expressed appreciation for my help and seemed eager to correct the situation.
In a few short weeks the extra mile had turned into a miracle mile. It was the miracle of God’s organized plan in operation, the miracle of dedicated men honoring their priesthood, the miracle of women who care. It was thrilling to see the process in full operation, to see people eagerly following the Lord’s outlined programs. It was exciting to know that I belonged to his church.
Ray not only had an immediate visit with Judy, but he also invited her to share dinner and home evening with his family that week. At that gathering the children responded to each other, and soon Judy was enjoying the deep interest of Ray’s wife, who offered to come and drive them all to Sunday School. Judy was hesitant, but the children were eager, and she finally agreed.
Coming back to church gave Judy a new awareness of the importance of the restored gospel, and before leaving she had met the bishop, talked with the Relief Society president, and agreed to let one of the Primary officers pick up her children from nursery school to attend Primary. When the bishop learned that Judy would soon be a trained dental assistant and was concerned about a job, he asked the ward employment director to start looking for dentists who might be prospective employers. By the time Judy was certified, he had three good interviews waiting. She was offered all three jobs and chose the highest salary offer.
A few weeks later the Relief Society president visited Judy to request her help in giving some information about dental care to the night Relief Society. Judy responded and enjoyed meeting other working sisters who shared many of her same problems. She became a steady supporter of Relief Society. Then the bishop decided it was time for a Church calling. Junior Sunday School seemed to fit her schedule best, and in a short time Judy was one of its outstanding teachers.
Then Ray Greer, who had been concentrating on finding her a better place to live within the ward boundary, found an excellent home for them. While the elders moved her belongings, the night Relief Society put paper on the shelves and the Sunday School officers prepared food to make it a party. Judy had become special to a lot of people and a very vital part of our ward.
On the fast Sunday when Judy stood to bear her testimony for the first time, the chapel was especially quiet as we all listened closely. She humbly acknowledged her new-found security in the knowledge that the Lord walked with her and that his gospel brought the serenity to overcome fear and inadequacy. Tears of gratitude flowed down her cheeks as she expressed love for all those who had helped lift her life with their caring. As she finished, most of us reached for our handkerchiefs and sensed the elation of shared victory. Wiping my eyes, I marveled at the beautiful process that had brought about Judy’s transformation. And I knew, incredible as it seemed, that it had all begun with some meager efforts to go the extra mile in my visiting teaching assignment.
I realized that day with a new clarity that, insignificant as we may feel in the service of God, each of us possesses the ability to put His great plans into operation, to release marvelous power that changes and builds lives, to provide the outlet for dedicated, vibrant service. But this tremendous potential can move ahead only when we create the momentum, when we release the dams and allow God’s magnificent glory to go forward and make the extra mile a miracle mile!

It was 1:00 A.M. on Christmas 1843. A band of less than two dozen, dressed against the chill, approached the Mansion House at the northeast corner of Main and Water streets in Nauvoo. The group halted below the windows of the room where the Prophet Joseph Smith slept. With well-wrapped scarves, hats pulled low, and hands gloved or pocketed, the members huddled below the Prophet’s window. One of the group gave the pitch, and they began caroling:
“Mortals, awake! with angels join,
And chant the solemn lay;
Love, joy, and gratitude combine
To hail th’auspicious day.*
As they sang the other six verses, the inhabitants of the house gathered at the window. Perhaps a few, including the Prophet, braved the foot-stamping cold to greet the singers. He later said, “It caused a thrill of pleasure to run through my soul. All of my family and boarders arose to hear the serenade, and I felt to thank my Heavenly Father for their visit and blessed them in the name of the Lord.”
The chill forgotten, Widow Lettice Rushton, a blind English convert, her five grown children and their spouses, and a handful of neighbors who made up the singing group departed for Hyrum’s house two blocks west on Water Street. Naturally at that hour the patriarch to the Church was asleep. He arose and went outside to shake hands with the singers. He blessed each one of them, telling them it was such heavenly music that he thought at first that a choir of angels had come to visit him.
For the Prophet and his brother, that Christmas was to prove their last.

The missionary bearing his testimony was on crutches; he had injured his knee in a bicycle accident. He wanted to tell the other missionaries how much he loved his companion, to tell them how he had learned of a new dimension in love from this companion. Two or three weeks earlier he had been in an accident. The doctor had said he couldn’t ride his bicycle anymore and must stay off his leg. The mission president had decided to transfer him so his companion could keep on working. What good could he do when he couldn’t even ride a bicycle? His companion pleaded with the mission president not to transfer him yet. They were having success. He loved his incapacitated companion. They would find a way. “Please let us try!” he said. The mission president agreed to let them try.
Then the elder on crutches told us how they had solved their problem. He said his companion had connected their two bikes with a rope, and had pulled him all over the city for two weeks as they did their work. He said he had really learned what it was like for one man to love another.

The day I played tennis for the first time was also the day I vowed never to set foot on a tennis court again.
My friend had offered to teach me how to play, and I thought it sounded like fun. I’d seen him and some other friends play before, and it didn’t look that hard.
I was right: tennis wasn’t hard—it was impossible. From the get-go, my hold on the racket felt awkward, I didn’t know how to stand, and I kept hitting the ball either too hard or too soft—that is, on the rare occasions when I actually hit the ball.
My friend tried teaching me some techniques, but no matter what I did, I wasn’t improving. On top of that, the sun was scorching hot, and I was sweating in my poor outfit choice of a gray shirt and thick black pants. An hour into it, I couldn’t handle it anymore.
“I can’t do this.” I told my friend as I sunk down onto the court. “I am the least athletic person in the world!”
He came and sat by me. “It’s OK,” he said. “We don’t have to keep going. But you can hardly beat yourself up because you aren’t Serena Williams your first day on the court. You’re just learning.”
We went home, but I thought about that day a lot after that. My friend was right—I was just learning. He had been patient with me, so why couldn’t I be patient with myself? Eventually, I broke my vow and decided to try tennis again. Guess what? I even hit a few balls over the net! So I kept at it. Now it’s one of my favorite hobbies!
We aren’t perfect. We sometimes feel scared, embarrassed, or unsure. Conditions around us can make things harder, like the hot sun did when I tried to learn tennis. In fact, with everything going on in life, it can sometimes seem impossible to just get along with ourselves.

The Evans family was finally moving out of the house on our homestead farm in New Mexico.
“I wish they’d hurry and leave so we can move in,” Ed said as we watched from the barn roof. No one but Papa had seen the inside of the house.
“I wonder if they’ll leave anything,” Caroline said.
“Probably not.”
“The Caldwells found all sorts of good things left in their house,” I put in.
“Like what?”
“A table and some fruit jars.”
“And a pretty good harness in the barn.”
“Don’t forget the stove. They left a good stove,” I added.
“The oven has to be propped up,” Caroline reminded us.
“It’s still good.”
By the time the Evanses had finished loading their belongings onto the wagon and started out the gate, it didn’t seem likely that anything could be left. We slid down the smooth board and ran to look inside. The house was completely empty except for one thing.
“A high chair!” Caroline exclaimed. “Look at that. Georgie can have a high chair.”
“But we don’t even have a table,” I complained.
“Papa will make us one,” she said. “Let’s go ask him.”
After we moved our things from the dugout, Ed said, “Now I get to sleep in the barn.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Nothing doing,” Mama warned. “The barn’s for animals, not children.”
“Papa promised,” Ed told her.
“It’s all right, hon,” Papa told Mama. “The loft’s clean and warm and close enough so that we could hear them call if they needed us.”
“Well, it is pretty crowded in here,” Mama relented a little. “Just one room for the seven of us.”
“Please, mama,” Ed coaxed.
“Please,” I echoed.
“I guess it won’t hurt to try it,” she conceded, and we started out the door.
Frank grabbed my legs and shouted, “I wanna sleep with Dora! I wanna sleep with Dora!”
“Let him come, Mama. I’ll take care of him.” She knew I would too.
“Watch him, then, so he doesn’t fall down the ladder,” she cautioned.
“I don’t fall down ladders.” Frank said indignantly. “I climb down.”
So the three of us moved into the barn.
Papa began to make some furniture, first a table and then a long bench. Georgie would use his high chair. He built a stretched-out sofa, too, and Mama sewed cushions for it. In the barn Papa was working on some chairs with woven seats.
Every day Papa put a bucket down the well, hoping to bring up water, but the best he could get was damp sand on the bottom of the bucket.
“Don’t try the well till I get there,” Ed called down from the loft to Papa, when he heard the door shut after milking.
“Me, too,” I yelled and scrambled down the ladder.
One day the bucket made a splash when it went down. “There’s water,” Papa announced and pulled quickly on the rope to bring up a dripping pailful.
“Water!” Ed shouted.
“Water!” I echoed.
It was a race to the house to tell Mama, and she was so excited she said, “Let’s celebrate. I’ll make pancakes for breakfast.”
“Hurry then,” Papa said. “We have to get the pipe and sucker rods in.”
“What are sucker rods?” Ed wanted to know.
“They’re wooden poles to suck the water out of the ground.”
“Where do you put them?” I asked.
“First, we put a big pipe down to the bottom of the well. Then we put the sucker rods, one at a time, inside the pipe and push them as far as they’ll go into the sand.”
“What if they aren’t long enough?” Ed asked.
“We’ll fasten another one onto the first. They’re made so they can be screwed together.”
“Then will the water come up?”
“Yes, as soon as we build a windmill to run the pump.”
“What if it pumps water all over and makes a mud hole?”
“It won’t. We’ll have it fixed so we can turn if off.”
“What if the wind doesn’t blow when we want water?”
“We’ll have a storage tank. The pump will fill it up when the wind’s blowing, and we’ll use the water when we need it. I saw a galvanized tank in the Sears Roebuck catalogue. I’d better send off for one right away.”
“Pancakes are ready,” Mama announced, and we sat up to the table to eat them.
“Anyone want to go with me to look for a Christmas tree?” Papa said one day in December.
“I do!” Ed shouted.
“Me, too,” I declared.
Caroline had just spread out her paper dolls to play with while the little boys were having their naps, and she didn’t want to pick them up just yet, so she shook her head.
“Where can you find a Christmas tree?” Mama asked. “I haven’t seen any pine trees growing around here.”
“Don’t know,” Papa said. “Maybe we’ll have to use a cactus.”
“A cactus Christmas tree?” Ed sounded disappointed.
“Why not!” Papa said. “Think how pretty it would be with paper chains and popcorn strings.”
“I guess so,” Ed conceded.
“I’ll pop the corn while you’re gone,” Mama offered. “We’ll string it when you get back.”
We tramped around in the warm sunshine, trying to imagine it was winter and that Christmas was nearly here. Although we learned to expect some snow every year, it wasn’t really very much when compared with what we had in Utah. This year December seemed more like March.
We could find nothing on our property that would do, so we started down the road to the sand hills. This definitely was not Christmas tree country. We decided there was no use hunting for a green tree and began to search for something else.
“Look at this,” Ed said, pulling a spiky round bush from next to the fence where it had tumbled in the wind.
“Not bad,” Papa said. “Not bad at all.”
I found another like it but not so squatty. “Look!” I exclaimed.
“That’s even better,” Papa said.
Once we began to look, we found a whole little forest of tumbleweeds along the fence line and finally selected one that was nearly cone shaped. Papa carried it on his shoulder, and we sang “Silent Night” as we walked home in the desert twilight.
The “tree” was suspended from the ceiling in the corner, where Frank and Georgie could see but not touch. We draped it with popcorn strings and chains made from the bright Christmas paper our purchases were wrapped in at Younger’s General Store.
We didn’t receive many gifts that first Christmas in New Mexico. Our stockings contained an apple, an orange, a handful of nuts, and a peppermint stick.
Each of us had one package, and inside was a napkin ring carved by Papa. Tucked inside the ring was a paper Mama had decorated with pretty writing and flowers painted around the edge. It read: “Coupon for part interest in a place of our own. To be redeemed for a deed in seven years.”
It was the best gift of all—the gift of hope. I put mine in the box where I kept my precious things. (To be continued.)

Recently a friend of mine was returning to his home in Salt Lake City on a plane from Dallas, Texas. His mind was focused upon an important event that was soon to occur in his family. His only son would be leaving home in just a few days to serve as a missionary in a far-distant land. His great love for his son caused him to reflect, “If my son is going so far away to teach about our Church, this had better be the best church!” Then he took out a notepad and pen and began to list the characteristics or qualities one would look for in the best church.
“There should be a program to build and strengthen youth,” he wrote, “an athletic program, a wholesome activity program, a program for teaching and training children, a program for developing the skills and talents of women, a program to provide for the needy, for the ill, for the lonely, for the victims of catastrophes and disasters, a program to provide opportunities for work and service, a program to assist families and individuals in spiritual development and progress.”
His list became long and impressive, and he satisfied himself that his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, offered a program to meet the need of every individual. Truly, he determined, it is the best church his son could represent!
My friend felt so good about his list of attractive qualities of the best church that he decided to show it to the gentleman seated next to him on the plane. The man, an executive from a financial firm, responded with interest and respect. Together they reviewed the list, and as they concluded their conversation the businessman asked my friend, “Would you like to know what I would look for in a church? There is just one criterion: the members of that church would best exemplify the teaching of the Savior—‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’”
My friend said he learned an important lesson from that experience. He had taught this fine man about the programs of the Church without acknowledging that the purpose of these programs is to help members learn how to love God and their fellowmen. He has shared that experience with me and permitted me to share it with you today that we might all be reminded of this.

“The animals have to earn their keep.” Papa’s words echoed in Megan’s mind. The dogs guarded the sheep, and the chickens laid eggs. The sheep produced wool to sell. Megan helped shear them every spring, and their thick wool always looked like snow melting on the green field.
But Megan’s lambs were different. They were runts that were born last year, and they were too small to produce enough wool to pay for their upkeep. Papa had wanted to take them to the butcher, but the two tiny, frail babies had captured Megan’s heart. She’d pleaded to keep them, and Papa had finally agreed. “But,” he had warned her, “you will have to take care of them all by yourself.”
At first, everything had been OK. Megan had used her birthday money to buy hay when the lambs began to eat. But now her birthday money was gone, and Papa said it was too expensive to let the lambs graze in the field he rented outside town. Besides, Megan knew she would rarely see them if they went to the field. She sighed as she watched her lambs nibble the last bit of hay. It would be gone tomorrow, and she needed to find a way to feed her lambs.
Megan patted the white wool on the lambs’ heads as she leaned against the pen. Down her street she could see Mr. Flowers tending his roses. A couple houses down, Mrs. Wilmot hobbled slowly out to get the mail. Mrs. Wilmot was a widow who lived all alone. Sometimes Megan’s brother raked leaves for Mrs. Wilmot, but he always complained because Mrs. Wilmot couldn’t afford to pay him.
Megan noticed how long Mrs. Wilmot’s grass was. “I’ll offer to trim her lawn for her,” Megan decided. “But not now. I need to find a way to feed my lambs.”
Suddenly Megan had an idea. Mrs. Wilmot had grass, and Megan had sheep that needed to graze—the perfect combination! Megan patted her lambs quickly on the head and ran to Mrs. Wilmot’s house. When Mrs. Wilmot answered the door, she beamed at Megan, happy to have a visitor. The words tumbled out of Megan’s mouth as she explained her idea.
“Mrs. Wilmot, I think this could be great for both of us!” Megan finished. She held her breath, waiting for a response.
“I think so too!” Mrs. Wilmot said. “I could use the company, and my lawn could use the help. Bring the lambs over first thing tomorrow morning.” Megan and Mrs. Wilmot smiled at each other, and Megan grinned all the way home.
The next day was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship. Megan took her sheep over to Mrs. Wilmot’s house every morning before school, and in the afternoons she stayed to visit for a while before she took her lambs home for the night. Mrs. Wilmot’s lawn stayed trimmed at the perfect height, and Megan’s lambs earned their keep.

Brother Ringger comes from Switzerland. His grandmother was touched by the missionaries a long, long time ago. His father was a man of great faith, a patriarch in the midst of his people, in a very literal way. Brother Hans Ringger has been a stake president among his people and a Regional Representative. He is a man of faith. His English may not be as polished as perhaps yours is. But there burns in his heart a deep, flaming conviction of the truth of this work. By profession, he is a distinguished architect in his native land. He has just retired as a full colonel from the Swiss Army. When I talked with him the other day about his leaving his business and consecrating himself to the work of the Lord and what it would entail, I looked into his strong face, and the tears began to well just a little. Then he said, “Of course, of course. If that’s what the Lord wishes, that’s what I want to do.”

Many times the most beautiful examples of obedience and service are given by ordinary people who live close to us. Sister Ana Rita de Jesus, an elderly widow, lived in Anápolis, Brazil. She could not read or write. The missionaries would go to her home every week to read the scriptures to her. She was loving and kind. Every Sunday she would ask the missionaries to help her fill out a tithing slip. Sometimes her tithing and offerings were not more than a few cents, but she knew the law and wanted to obey it. After paying her tithing, she would walk into the room where the sacrament meeting was held in the rented house used as a chapel and would place a flower on the pulpit. In doing so, she served her brothers and sisters, bringing beauty to the place where we worshiped the Lord. That sister, in a very simple way, taught us obedience and service through her faith. She knew that obeying the commandments is the best preparation to serve. President Monson advised us in the last April general conference to “obey the commandments” and “serve with love” (“In Harm’s Way,” Ensign, May 1998, 47). Sister Ana Rita did so throughout her life.

A wise man once said, “When a wrong wants righting, or a truth wants preaching, or a continent wants discovering (or, we might add, people need to be urged to read the Book of Mormon), God sends a baby into the world to do it” (See Conference Report, April 1960, page 84).
And so it was that on August 4, 1899, Ezra Taft Benson was born.
Almost 22 years later, in the summer of 1921, Ezra was called on a mission to Great Britain. He studied and worked hard, but wrote in his journal that he was disgusted with his “frail attempt at speaking.”
He was invited to speak at the South Shields Branch on the Apostasy but felt impressed to speak on the Book of Mormon, instead. He later recalled, “I spoke with a freedom I had never experienced. Afterward, I couldn’t recall what I had said, but several nonmembers surrounded me and said, ‘Tonight we received a witness that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and we are ready for baptism.’ … I knew that the Lord was with me.” (Sheri L. Dew, Ezra Taft Benson: A Biography, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1987, page 55.)
Today, thousands have had a spiritual awakening because they are studying and following the teachings of the Book of Mormon as the prophet has asked. Thousands feel that they have received a special personal message from the prophet as he has spoken to Church members of all ages.
Thousands are better people because they have stripped themselves of pride, as counseled by this great prophet.
I bear witness that Ezra Taft Benson was born to be a prophet, has lived so that he could be a prophet, and has been called of God to be a prophet in our day.