Gospel Story Finder

When I was young, my family moved and joined a new ward. My dad was called as the bishop shortly after. It was a bit baffling from our limited perspective—there were other qualified men in the ward, and my dad didn’t feel like he knew the members or their individual needs as well as he would have liked.
But he did his best and served faithfully, working hard to get to know those he was serving. By the time his service ended, he felt great love for the members of our ward.
And right after his release, he was called to the nursery.
It was remarkable to watch the transition. He loved the nursery children and was thoughtful about planning lessons and activities that helped them develop a strong foundation in the gospel. Even though his calling in the ward had changed, he stayed close to the members of the ward that he’d come to know and love and continued to learn new ways to serve his brothers and sisters.
He also had more time to devote to our family; shortly after his release, my mom followed a prompting to go back to school and earn an advanced degree, so his responsibilities in our home increased as she spent more time studying. It was truly a blessing for our family to have his help at that time.
My dad’s responsibilities had changed, but the significance and impact of his responsibilities had not. The Lord knew what was best for both the ward and my family. As President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, explained: “We do not ‘step down’ when we are released, and we do not ‘step up’ when we are called. There is no ‘up or down’ in the service of the Lord. There is only ‘forward or backward,’ and that difference depends on how we accept and act upon our releases and our callings.”1

I remember a personal experience that helped me learn to replace doubt with hope. I was serving as a stake president at the time. My children were small. My wife and I owned a tortilla-making business, and we worked long hours.

One of those nights, when my wife and I had to make tortillas from midnight until 3:00 a.m., three young men came to our shop. All three were high on drugs. Two of them wore ski masks and long raincoats. The raincoats hid their weapons. They threatened us, put us inside the shop, and closed the door. One stood guard outside, repeatedly shouting, “Kill them! Kill them!”

One of the young men put the barrel of his gun against my temple and forced me to lie down. The other put the barrel of his gun to my wife’s chest. I prayed that my children would not become orphans, and the Lord protected us. The robbers finally locked us in the bathroom and disappeared, driving away in my truck.

We escaped and called for help. The police came and so did my brother. As soon as possible, we took my wife home. Then my brother and I went looking, unsuccessfully, for my truck. Feeling very sad, I returned home at 5:00 a.m.

To my surprise, my wife and children were not there. A neighbor told me that my four-year-old daughter was suffering stomach pain, and they had rushed her to the hospital. Knowing that we would desperately need money for her care, I felt I had no choice but to return to the tortilla shop and fill the orders for the day. Since my wife and I were the only workers, I was alone, rushing like crazy, kneading, putting dough in the hopper, adjusting the size, running back and forth to finish tortillas and wait on customers.

By now it was 8:00 a.m. I began to reflect on the events of the night. The question went through my mind, “If you are the stake president, why is all this happening to you?”

I pushed the malicious thought aside and prayed for strength. Then I heard a voice behind me: “President.” It was my bishop and a brother from the ward, my home teachers.

The bishop said, “We don’t know how to make tortillas, so we can’t help you here. But don’t worry about your truck, your wife, your sick daughter, or your other children. You stay here and we will help you with the rest.” My eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

They took charge of everything but tortillas. That afternoon when I returned home, I found my house clean and tidy, my shirts ironed, and food waiting for me. No one was home, but I knew that the Relief Society had been there. The police had found my truck, and someone from the ward had paid to get it released.

I quickly went to see my wife and daughter. The bishop had been there and had given my daughter a blessing. She had appendicitis, but everything was under control.

As my wife and I talked, we were impressed that the bishop had not used fast offerings or items from the bishops’ storehouse to assist us. Rather, he used the resources and mercy of the members of our ward.

A few days later, while my daughter was recuperating and my wife was helping me in the tortilla shop, three women arrived. They were the mothers of the young thieves and had come to offer their apologies. They explained that the police had caught their sons. Later these mothers practically dragged their sons into the shop to ask forgiveness, and we forgave them.

I want to tell you of an incident that happened many years ago. Two of our sons, then little boys, were wrestling on the rug, and they had reached that line which separates laughter from tears. So I worked my foot carefully between them and lifted the older one back to a sitting position on the rug. As I did so, I said, “Hey there, you little monkeys. You’d better settle down.”
To my surprise he folded his little arms, his eyes swimming with deep hurt, and protested, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!”
The years have not erased the overwhelming feeling of love I felt for my little sons. I was taught a profound lesson by my little boys. Many times over the years his words have slipped back into my mind, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person!” I was taught a profound lesson by my little boy.
Now the cycle of life has moved swiftly on, and both of those sons have little boys of their own, who teach their fathers lessons. They now watch their children grow as we watched them. They are coming to know something as fathers that they could not be taught as sons. Perhaps now they know how much their father loves them. Hopefully, they know as well why prayers begin “Our Father who art in heaven.”
All too soon their children will be grown with little “persons” of their own, repeating the endless cycle of life.

The Polaradome’s transparent bubble loomed high into the afternoon sky, dwarfing the cityscape on all sides of it. The people thronging the giant entry doors looked like armies of ants converging on an inverted fishbowl.
“My, but it’s big,” said a trim young lady to her escort. “How many does it hold?”
He looked upward at the sweeping curve of the dome. “A quarter of a million.”
She caught her breath. “Tom, you’re kidding!”
He shook his head. “When they designed the Games Machine, they designed the Polaradome to go with it. They have such a huge investment in all this, the only way they can show a profit is to house it in a stadium the size of the Polaradome.” He grinned. “And hope the people come out and fill it up.”
She looked around at the sea of people engulfing them. “I think they’re going to make a profit on today’s game.”
They walked down a wide aisle and took seats very near home plate. She turned to him and said, “You believe in getting close to the game, don’t you?”
He nodded, smiling. “I like to get involved, Marci.”
“What about those people back there in the last rows? As enormous as the Polaradome is, I’d think they’d have some difficulty seeing the plays sometimes.”
“They would, except for these.” He leaned forward and pressed a button on the back of the seat in front of him. A television screen as wide as the seat slid up into view. “If you can’t see the play by looking at the field, you can always see it on the screen.”
Marci looked up at him with innocent blue eyes.
“Then how is this any better than staying at home and watching it on television?”
He looked at her the way he had looked the she’d asked him what good it did to send men into space. “Because,” he said “you’re here! And besides,” he added, adjusting the dials, “you have absolute control of the picture yourself. There are cameras all over the stadium, giving different views of the field, and you can increase the magnification to suit yourself. You can zoom in on the pitcher, the batter, the dugout—anywhere. And you can pick up the sound there, too, through the parabolic listening devices. You even have your own split-screen control; you can put any or all of the pictures on the screen at the same time.”
He demonstrated by showing both dugouts, the outfield, and the pitcher’s mound on the screen at the same time, watching her out of the corner of his eye to see if she were properly impressed. She was. At least she seemed to be, and that was good enough.
“And besides all this,” he said with a grin, “how can you boo the umpire if you stay at home?”
She smiled. “Let’s face it; you’re a fan.”
She looked down at the pregame activity on the field. “Tell me something about the players.”
“Well, there’s Babe Ruth, with his 714 career homers, and Cy Young, who won 509 games as a pitcher. And of course there’s Bob Gibson—”
“No, I mean the players. The robot-men, or whatever you call them, that will actually play the game today. Tell me how that part of it works.”
“Oh, the Games Machine players. They’re just robots that look like men. Once they begin to play ball, you forget they’re not human.”
She shook her head. “But what purpose is there in calling a robot Babe Ruth? That doesn’t give it the ability to hit more home runs than any other robot.”
Tom switched off all the pictures on the screen except one; that one he magnified till it showed a close-up of the Babe Ruth robot warming up. “All right; take a good look at him.”
She looked closely. “He looks just like the pictures I’ve seen. But can he hit home runs?”
Tom nodded. “He can hit home runs. He can hit home runs with just exactly the same ability that the real Babe could hit them. And he can run and field and throw just like the Babe could. If the Babe could do it, this robot can do it. If the Babe couldn’t do it, this robot can’t do it.”
“Remarkable. Then every robot out there has the actual abilities of the man it represents?”
“Right. It has the same body-build, the same strengths—even the same weaknesses. It can feel pain and fatigue just as though it were the real man.”
“Amazing! How do they do it?”
The Games Machine computer has all the data on every player who ever lived, and it programs everything, including intelligence and personality, into the robot that represents the player. So the Games Machine players will play ball out there today just the way the real men would have played it if each one were alive and in his prime.”
She arched an eyebrow. “This is eerie. The Games Machine almost resurrects them from the dead.”
She sat quietly for a while, thinking. “How do they decide which players are going to play?”
“The fans vote on them.”
“Which fans?”
He grinned. “The fans that pay to see the game. That’s the kind of vote that counts the most.”
She laughed. “That sounds logical. People who pay money for something are very sincere.”
She opened her program and glanced at it. “Let me see if I can recognize anyone down there. Babe Ruth is just about the only baseball player I’ve ever heard of.”
He looked at her with infinite patience. “Watch this.” He focused the screen on one of the players and punched a switch; the split screen to the right flashed a still picture with a name below it—“Cy Young.”
Marci looked carefully at both pictures. “Why—it’s the same player! Do you mean that the Games Machine can recognize every player and identify him for you?”
“Not only that; look at this.” He turned a small knob beside the switch. More reading appeared on the screen.
“Cy Young, the starting pitcher today for the American League All-Stars, won a total of 509 games during his 20-year career.” There followed a brief history, loaded with statistics.
“If you have any questions,” said Tom, “just push this other button and speak into the diaphragm. The computer will give you your answer on the screen. Go ahead; ask it a question.”
She pushed the switch for her own screen and leaned forward. “Who will be managing for the American League today?”
A picture flashed on the screen; under it was the name “Casey Stengel.”
“And who’s managing the National League?”
Another picture replaced the first; below it was the name “John McGraw.”
Tom leaned forward. “Show us the won-lost record of each manager, season by season, with asterisks beside pennant-winning teams.”
The requested information flashed on the screen.
“Now place double asterisks beside teams that won World Series.”
Again the computer obeyed.
Marci read the records. “Fabulous! Along with everything else, the Games Machine is a private tutor.”
Tom smiled. “Nothing is too good for the fans in the Polaradome.”
He singled out each American League player on the squad and flashed his picture and information file on the screen. There was Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Ty Cobb, Ted Williams, Jimmie Foxx, Joe DiMaggio, Tris Speaker, Yogi Berra …
Marci studied the records. When she had finished, she looked at Tom. “What a formidable baseball team! Putting all that home-run power into one lineup doesn’t seem fair; they’ll simply mop up the planet with the poor National Leaguers.”
“Over my dead body,” Tom muttered grimly. “Why, Tom! Don’t tell me you’re rooting for the National League? I know you always stand up for the underdog, but this is ridiculous.”
Tom said nothing. He brought into focus a player who was throwing warm-up pitches on the National League side of the field. He switched to instant replay and showed in slow motion the long, smooth, powerful pitches of the black-skinned athlete.
“Who is he?” asked Marci.
“He’s the reason why nobody is going to mop up any planets with the National League today. His name is Bob Gibson.”
Marci looked more closely at the face on the screen. “Oh, I recognize him now. He’s the one in that picture you have on your living room wall.”
She looked up at him suddenly. “Ah,” she said gently, “I think I see. Your boyhood hero?”
He nodded. “My boyhood hero.”
Marci said nothing more, but her eyes softened. She spent the next several minutes scanning the National League players on the readout screen. There were Willie Mays, Stan Musial, Ralph Kiner, Jackie Robinson, Duke Snyder, Roger Maris, Eddie Mathews, Henry Aaron, Gil Hodges, Richie Allen, Rogers Hornsby, Honus Wagner, Roy Campanella, Johnny Bench …
“Just a minute,” she said. “Bench and Campanella are both catchers. Is there some mistake?”
“No. They’re both on the squad. They can’t both be playing catcher at the same time, but one could start in that position and be relieved by the other later on. Or if the manager wanted to keep them both in the game, he could let one catch and the other play another position, like first base or center field. He just can’t have more than nine men on the team at any one time.”
She turned off the screen. “This could be a very interesting game. There’s enough home-run power on both teams to knock down the Polaradome. Pity the pitchers.”
Then she looked at Tom and wished she hadn’t said it.
“You’re right,” he said. “They both have to face some terrible power out there.”
The “Star-Spangled Banner” sounded through the Polaradome; the people rose to their feet.
Then the umpire yelled, “Play ball!”
The game was on.
The National Leaguers came to bat in the top half of the first inning. Cy Young’s pitches cut them down with methodical, errorless precision.
Then the American League All-Stars came to the plate, and Bob Gibson walked out to the mound to face them. His pitches whipped across the plate like will-o-the-wisps, dazzling, deceiving, overpowering the batters. He threw eleven pitches and struck out the side.
The game was power. Power on the mound, power at the plate, power in the field. Cy Young and Bob Gibson matched each other strike for strike, out for out, inning for inning, shutting out the legendary batting kings of the game.
At the end of nine full innings of play, Young and Gibson had pitched a dual no-hit, no-run game.
“Incredible!” said Marci. “I certainly expected to see some hits and runs from all those champions out there.”
Tom grinned. “It’s hard to hit a blur.”
“Nine innings is normally the end of the game, isn’t it? What happens now?”
“They go into extra innings and keep on playing until one team is ahead at the end of a full inning. They call it ‘sudden death.’”
The sun went down and the great lights came on inside the Polaradome, and the duel of the pitching titans continued. At the end of fifteen innings, there were still no hits, no runs, and no errors.
In the top half of the sixteenth, with two men out and none on base, Jackie Robinson came to bat for the National League.
Cy Young’s first pitch was high and hard; Robinson tagged it squarely and drove it into center field just over Tris Speaker’s head. Robinson rounded first base and raced for second as Speaker came up with the ball and fired to second base. Jackie slid for the bag;
Ty Cobb fielded the ball—
“Safe!” yelled the umpire.
“What a runner!” exclaimed Marci. “That looked like a long single to me.”
“It was,” laughed Tom. “Except when Jackie Robinson’s running the bases.”
Stan Musial came to the plate.
Robinson danced back and forth along the second base line. Cy Young watched intently. Suddenly he threw to second, and Jackie slid back in, safe.
Young’s first pitch to Musial was low, and Stan swung for a strike. Robinson took an even longer lead off second as Young prepared for the next pitch.
Young whirled and threw to second!
Jackie slid into the bag, safe by inches.
Cy Young stood on the mound and prepared for his second pitch to Musial. Again, Robinson danced up and down the line, taking an ever more daring lead.
Young watched him, turned back to face Musial, and then watched Jackie again.
“Poor man,” said Marci. “He doesn’t know which way to throw the ball.”
“That’s part of the game,” said Tom. “When Jackie Robinson gets on base and starts dancing back and forth along the line, he has a tendency to drive the pitcher crazy.”
Young looked at Robinson, then wheeled and fired a fast pitch to Musial; Musial met it with the bat and laced it over the first baseman’s head and on into short right field. Mickey Mantle fielded it on one hop and threw to Lou Gehrig at first; Musial slid in just ahead of the throw.
And Jackie Robinson rounded third base and pounded down the line for home!
The crowd rose to its feet and screamed; Gehrig fired a strike to the plate; Yogi Berra gloved it.
In time!
But Robinson simply wasn’t there; he was racing back for third; Berra heaved the ball to Jimmie Foxx.
And Jackie reversed again and streaked home!
He slid across the plate inches ahead of the throw!
The fans were in a frenzy; Tom pounded the arm of his seat and yelled incoherently.
“Wow!” said Marci.
Duke Snyder came to bat next and hit a hard line drive to center field; Tris Speaker made a spectacular running catch and the top half of the sixteenth inning was over.
But the National League led now, one to nothing.
Bob Gibson walked out to the mound.
“This is it,” said Tom. “If he can hold them off just one more inning, it’s all over. Sudden death.”
Ty Cobb came to the plate, swinging a bat viciously.
Gibson’s pitch was a low, breakaway curve; Cobb swung and missed.
The next pitch was fast and belt-high; Cobb stepped into it and bunted, laying it down the first base line. Gibson raced for the ball; he fielded it right at the edge of the base path.
And Cobb’s shoulder smashed into his face!
Gibson staggered; the ball rolled to the ground. He brought his hands to his face in agony as Cobb crossed first base and looked back.
Tom was on his feet. “That was deliberate!”
But Cobb was safe at first.
And Gibson was hurt. He stood where he was for several moments. Then he picked up the ball and walked heavily back to the mound.
Mickey Mantle was standing in the batter’s box. John McGraw walked out to the mound to talk to Gibson. They talked for a while; then McGraw nodded, looked once at Mantle, and went back to the dugout.
Gibson went through the motions of his pitch; the ball sailed down the strike groove and hung there, with nothing on it. Mantle blasted it all the way to the wall in left center.
Willie Mays raced for it, leaped high in the air, and took in on the carom. He heaved it to the infield in time to keep Cobb from scoring. Cobb scampered back to third base. And Mantle was in at second with a standup double.
McGraw went back out to the mound.
“Take him out, McGraw!” yelled one of the fans.
“Leave him in!” shouted another.
“He’s hurt, Tom,” said Marci. “He can’t pitch anymore. It would be cruel to make him try.”
Then a tall black man with white hair and broad shoulders descended from the stands and walked out to the pitcher’s mound.
McGraw stared at him. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “And what do you think you’re doing on the playing field?”
The old man looked at him quietly. “My name is Gibson. I came to pitch.”
“Gibson!” shouted Tom. “The real Gibson!”
Some of the fans began to chant, “We want Gibson! We want Gibson!”
“But he’s an old man now,” said Marci. “What can he do against those—machines?”
“He may be old,” said Tom, “but he’s still a man. And more than that, he’s still Bob Gibson.”
Down on the field, McGraw, player of the Games Machine, appraised Gibson, the man.
He was old.
But he was tall and tough.
“All right, Gibson,” said McGraw. “Go put on a uniform and get back out here. But I want a win!”
Gibson’s eyes were dark and steady. “So do I.”
Gibson stood on the mound. The real Gibson, muscle, blood, and bones; old, white-haired, and full of fight.
He faced Lou Gehrig at the plate. The Iron Horse. Tris Speaker knelt in the on-deck circle, and Babe Ruth stood near the dugout. There were three outs to go, and that was the batting order.
And any one of the three could end this game with one swing of the bat.
He checked the runners. Mantle stood quietly just off second base; Ty Cobb jittered up and down along the third base line, chattering incessantly.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Come on, old man, see if you can throw it this far! You’ll sure never get it as far as home plate!”
Gibson ignored him. He was watching Lou Gehrig in the batter’s box.
He wound up and pitched. His fast ball hopped across the plate and Gehrig cut through empty air.
“Strike one!”
Cobb, who had been coming down the line, ran back to third.
The next pitch was just as fast, but a little low.
“Ball one!”
Cobb trotted back to third. “What’s the matter, Pitch? Blown up after one toss?”
Gibson fired the next one down the middle, hard. Gehrig swung, the bat cracked, and the ball sailed off to the right, foul.
“Strike two!”
“Hey, Gibson!” shouted Cobb. “You look a little older after every pitch! Careful on the next one; it’s going into the bleachers—if you can get it as far as the plate!”
Gibson rested a moment. Then he put everything he had on a pitch down the inside corner; Gehrig swung for the fence—
And missed!
The crowd cheered heartily.
“The Iron Horse!” said Tom. “He struck out the Iron Horse!”
The next batter was Tris Speaker. Gibson whizzed the first pitch past him as he tried to bunt and missed.
Cobb, who had been rushing the plate, turned and dashed back to third.
Marci gasped. “Tom! Do you see what they’re doing? They’re going to make Bob Gibson field another bunt! Only this time he’s an old man! He doesn’t have a chance if one of those machines tramples him!”
She tugged his arm. “Tom! He may be killed!”
But Tom was already on his feet. “Stop the game!” he shouted. “Mr. Gibson! Don’t throw that pitch!”
Too late!
Gibson pitched the ball; Speaker bunted, not down the first base line, but down the third base line, right in the path of the onrushing Ty Cobb!
Gibson raced for the ball as the Games Machine player thundered down on him in a collision course; he scooped the ball up and the robot’s hunched shoulder hammered into his chest with a sickening thud. He went down backwards, a steel knee ramming into his stomach and an elbow grinding into his face.
Man and robot lay tangled together, unmoving.
And then the man stood up.
His face was bleeding and twisted with pain, but he stood tall and straight. And still clenched in his right fist—the ball!
He limped slowly back to the mound. He stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily. Then he ground the ball into his glove and checked the runners.
Tris Speaker had gone all the way to second on the play, but Mantle had held at third, not caring to challenge Bob Gibson’s defense of home plate.
There were two outs now.
But Babe Ruth stood in the batter’s box, waiting.
Gibson went into his windup and pitched; the ball sank lifelessly across the plate just above the ankles.
“Ball one!”
He rested for a few more moments. His next pitch was a little faster and a little higher, but inside.
“Ball two!”
“Take him out McGraw!” someone yelled. “If he ever gets it across, the Babe’ll murder it!”
Marci bit her lip. “It’s too cruel. They shouldn’t let him pitch anymore. He’s hurt. He’s an old man, and he’s hurt.”
Gibson stood unmoving on the mound, looking down the pitching lane at Babe Ruth.
Then he blazed a fast ball across the plate, belt-high; the Babe swung, connected sharply, and dribbled it off to the left, foul.
“Strike one!”
Gibson stood a little easier now, a little taller. He ground the ball into his glove, hauled his arm back, and pitched the fastest ball of the day, straight for the heart of the strike zone.
The Babe swung, and didn’t come close.
“Strike two!”
Blood and sweat streaked Gibson’s face; his white hair shone in the lights of the Polaradome. The crowd hushed, electric with tension, waiting for the pitch.
Gibson stood on the mound like Zeus of Mount Olympus, poised to hurl a world-splitting thunderbolt down through the clouds.
Then he leaned back and let his lightning fly!
It blitzed down the strike lane and thunder-clapped into the catcher’s mitt, and the Babe’s bat met nothing but the wind!
“Strike three!”
The crowd erupted onto the field, shouting jubilantly; the players of the Games Machine converged on Bob Gibson, lifting his human bulk to their steel shoulders, carrying him triumphantly around the diamond.
Tom stood where he was, unable to utter a sound.
Marci cried.
The lights of the Polaradome glowed against the night sky, towering over the other lights of the city.
Tom and Marci climbed into his car near the edge of the parking lot. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me, Tom.” She looked out at the Polaradome. “It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.”
“Oh—the Games Machine?”
“No. That magnificent old man.”
He smiled.
“Gibson is tough.”
“But how could a man do more than his own robot image?”
He watched the Polaradome lights wink out, one by one. “I think they didn’t get all of Gibson into the Machine.”

It was a cold winter day at Utah Lake, and my dad and I were on the shore looking at the ice that had frozen on the water. My dog Suni got a little too curious and ran out on the lake. Suddenly the ice broke, and Suni fell into the water. We didn’t know how to get Suni back to shore. I was afraid she would drown, so I said a little prayer in my heart for help. Right then an idea came to me. I should throw rocks into the water to break the ice so Suni could swim to shore. The idea worked, and Suni swam quickly to shore. I am grateful for the gift of the Holy Ghost. The Spirit guided me in saving the life of my dog.Bryson P., age 11, Utah

Marva Olson Prior is the great-grandmother of Erica. Her life did not take every turn as she expected. She reared her four children righteously in the Church without her husband being a member. She once said: “If we keep His commandments, we will be blessed and find peace of mind and true joy, but not without trials, for we learn so much from our challenges.” Her husband joined the Church after they had been married 46 years. Part of who Erica Wible is comes because of the noble life of this great-grandmother. I have a picture of Erica with her great-grandmother when Erica was younger. Sister Prior passed away four years ago.

I realize that before me are hundreds of young men, many of whom are deacons. I remember when I was a deacon. (It has been a long time ago, however.) I thought it was a great honor to be a deacon. My father was always considerate of my responsibilities and always permitted me to take the buggy and horse to gather fast offerings. My responsibility included that part of the town in which I lived, but it was quite a long walk to the homes, and a sack of flour or a bottle of fruit or vegetables or bread became quite heavy as it accumulated. So the buggy was very comfortable and functional. We have changed to cash in later days, but it was commodities in my day. It was a very great honor to do this service for my Heavenly Father; and though times have changed, when money is given generally instead of commodities, it is still a great honor to perform this service.

The last child we have is named Benjamin. When he was young, we had a family tradition on the day after Thanksgiving. We would load all of our bikes in the back of the truck, get everyone into the minivan, and then drive up to a mountain trail near the San Gabriel River in Southern California. We would go on a bike ride there and then have a picnic at a park at the end. We did this every year.

When Benjamin was three or four, we piled out of our van, got our bikes out of the truck, put our helmets on, got on our bikes, and just started riding—everybody knew the drill. Benjamin was the second to last to get on his bike, and I was the last. When Benjamin got on his bike, he immediately swerved terribly to the left, overcorrected all the way to the right, and then fell on the ground.

I called out to everybody to stop, and then I asked, “Didn’t anyone teach Benjamin how to ride a bike?”

None of us had! I looked at Natalie; she looked at Taylor and then me—I guess it was my job. The funniest thing was that Benjamin didn’t even know that he needed someone to teach him. He just saw everybody get on their bike and go, so he did too!

So I did what dads do: I held the back of the bike seat steady and ran alongside him. Then after about ten yards I launched him, knowing there would be enough angular momentum to keep him vertical. And shazam! He learned how to ride a bike. Sink or swim, I guess. That’s what happens sometimes to the youngest.

Benjamin, I love you. The worth of your soul is so, so great in the sight of God, me, and your mother (see Doctrine and Covenants 18:10).

Three of her four children joined the Church with her, and all of them are still active Latter-day Saints. “When I was first being taught, the children would laugh behind the door. After I received my own testimony of the gospel, I got them to promise that they would listen to one discussion. I told the missionaries that they had better be good, because the children had promised to listen just this once. The elders prepared a very fine flannel-board presentation, after which the children promised that they would also join the Church. It is true, though, that the youngest son, Eikki, later said the reason he joined the Church was that his mother told him to,” Sister Rinne says, laughing.

An experience which remains vivid in my mind when I felt the Savior yoked up with me, was during the October 2010 general conference. A missionary who had struggled for over six months with homesickness and wanting to go home was really weighing me down. As we approached general conference, I asked for inspiration on how to deal with this challenge. I also asked the missionaries to identify personal issues they were struggling with, then to listen carefully for what would be said in the general conference. Missionaries were asked to listen to both spoken and unspoken words.

We had just watched the Saturday afternoon session, and we were waiting for the priesthood session. Since we were watching the sessions live, it was past midnight in Harare. Some of us were outside, and this missionary who had been struggling with homesickness came and stood next to me. He simply said, “President, I have decided to stay.”

I could hardly believe what he had said. I asked him, “Why have you decided to stay and serve your mission?”

He said that he felt it was the right thing to do. Then he added, “I decided to stay not for myself, but for my children and grandchildren.”

We embraced and rejoiced together.

This missionary became one of our strongest elders. He inspired other missionaries to look to the Lord and to serve with humility, faith, and power.

Now he and his sweetheart have been sealed in the temple, and they are noble, righteous parents. His decision to stay on his mission surely has brought blessings to his family and it will continue to do so forever.

I felt the Lord’s love in taking upon me his yoke as we listened to general conference and sensed this missionary felt the same way. As I now reflect on what transpired, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words come to mind: “If we teach by the Spirit and you listen by the Spirit, some one of us will touch on your circumstance, sending a personal prophetic epistle just to you.”1

In 1998, when I was Young Men president in my ward, I participated in a stake youth camp. As I was resting after a game, I saw a young man I didn’t know. He was sitting alone on a little mound away from the camp. He had an unpleasant expression on his face. I felt I needed to go over and talk to him.
I introduced myself and asked his name. I don’t remember all that we talked about, but I do remember that I shed a few tears. It was a special conversation that lasted until they called us to the next activity. I rarely saw the young man after that and never had another chance to talk to him.
In August 2005 we had a meeting at our stake center. This same young man came up to me and gave me a letter. It read:
I started thinking today about our conversation in San Martin Park in about 1998. Just to remind you, I was sitting by myself and feeling a bit sad. You came up to me and said you felt you needed to talk to me. You said … the time had come to choose—either to stay with the Church and follow Jesus Christ or leave it and not enjoy the blessings that come from activity in the Church. The one thing that really stayed with me was when you said that if I fell, my whole family would fall with me, but if I would keep moving forward, they would come too.
… A great desire arose in me to help them. … So from the day we had that talk, I made the decision to be faithful to the Lord, and even now, after seven years, I am still faithful, and my family is firm in the gospel and faithful to the Lord. … Thank you so much for being so straightforward and truthful with me. You’ll never know how much good it did.
This young man is now a returned missionary who has been married in the temple. I am grateful to the Lord for giving me the opportunity to serve as a leader. I am grateful to come to understand the importance of putting myself in others’ shoes so I can try to understand what they are going through.
Alejandro Humberto Villarreal, Argentina

In 1956 Lee Wing Foon and his wife, Lee Kan Shui Tao, joined the Church. “I felt like an entirely new person when I was baptized,” Brother Lee remembers. At the time, however, meetings were held quite far from his home, and money was tight. The English Book of Mormon Brother Lee bought cost two days’ wages, and transportation to meetings proved costly. Gradually the Lees stopped attending.
“But I kept my English Book of Mormon,” says Brother Lee, who at the time was working as a civilian driver in the British Army. “It was a prized possession.”
Through the years missionaries occasionally visited, and three years ago two sisters issued a challenge. “They asked me to start reading the Book of Mormon,” he says. “They even came and read it with me once a week.”
However, attending Church was difficult. Eight years ago, Sister Lee had a stroke. She is unable to walk, and Brother Lee, now retired, spends much of his time caring for her. “It’s difficult for me to leave her alone,” he explains.
Missionaries continued to visit the Lees to read scriptures. And in September 1995, Brother Lee had a wonderful surprise. Jerry Wheat, the missionary who had baptized him four decades earlier, walked into his home with the elders. “I am serving as a public affairs missionary in Hong Kong,” Elder Wheat explained. “I had wondered what happened to Brother Lee, and when I asked and found out the missionaries were visiting him, I was thrilled to accompany them.”
The first time the two met, they hugged like old friends and caught up on each other’s lives. Elder Wheat returned again to the Lee home, this time to talk about the temple. “I challenged him to prepare himself to be sealed to his wife,” Elder Wheat explains. “He accepted.”
Since then, Brother Lee has made arrangements for neighbors or ward members to watch his wife while he attends church. With the assistance of ward members, he and his wife attended the ceremony celebrating the statue of the angel Moroni being placed on the top of the temple. They were sealed together in the Hong Kong Temple within the first few days of its opening.
“Being sealed is a great blessing, one that not everyone has,” Brother Lee says. “I am so grateful for the missionaries—those first elders that taught me, the sisters who showed such great compassion and love by reading the scriptures with me, and the missionaries who continue to visit me now. The gospel is true, and the Book of Mormon is proof of that.”

The sophomore math whiz sat in the classroom after school waiting for the football star to come in for his weekly tutoring session. The guy who enjoys algebra, calculus, and trigonometry would spend an extra hour or so each week teaching polynomial expressions and practicing exponential equations with the football hero, whom many called the best high school running back in the country. Turning upfield for another 10-yard gain he could do. But algebra? Linear inequalities were something of a challenge. That’s when the tutor came to the rescue.
When the school year ended, so did the tutoring sessions. The tutor had his junior year to look forward to while the tutor’s “student” graduated and accepted an athletic scholarship to the University of Miami.
That’s when the math whiz says, “Someday when he’s a famous running back in the National Football League, I can tell my kids I taught him math.”
It’s a year later, and once again Maurice Navarro is sitting in a classroom at Coral Gables Senior High near Miami, Florida. School ended 30 minutes ago, but, just like the year before, a group of students is gathered around Maurice as he teaches a math concept his fellow students aren’t quite understanding.
That’s Maurice Navarro. Still the math tutor. Still helping others.
“That comes from my mother,” says Maurice. “She taught me that if I’m able to help others, it’s important that I do. It’s difficult for some of the kids to grasp some math things, so that’s why I tutor. Since math does come pretty easily to me, I’m glad to help.”
The same must go for his volunteer work at two area medical centers. Each Friday and Saturday, Maurice donates about nine hours doing numerous jobs at both hospitals.
“I work with patients, moving them in wheelchairs or in their beds through the hospital,” he says. “When I’m there, I get to see the smiles on the people’s faces when they see you’re doing something nice for them. I love meeting the patients, seeing their faces, and seeing their reactions.
“It’s that way with tutoring,” he continues. “When I hear somebody say, ‘I got it!’ about a concept I’m teaching, I feel I’ve done my job. And it’s the same in the hospital with the patients, only with smiles.”
In the Fountainebleau Ward, in the Miami Florida Stake, Maurice is the first assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. Not long ago, he was a young deacon looking up to the priests who were preparing to leave on missions. Now it’s Maurice’s turn to lead. “Since I’m the oldest one in Young Men, I hope the deacons and teachers look at me as an example in the same way I looked to the older boys when I was that age,” he says.
Tangible evidence of Maurice’s example to other Aaronic Priesthood holders in his ward came in the way of service for his Eagle Scout project he completed last year. Maurice organized a child identification day where he invited people in his community to bring their children to the ward on a Saturday so the children could be fingerprinted and videotaped. After police gave a presentation on ways to protect children, the parents in attendance took the fingerprint cards and the videotapes home. Now, if ID information is ever needed, it will be at the parents’ fingertips.
Maurice spent numerous hours coordinating this project that attracted close to 100 children. As a bonus, he also asked people who came to bring one or two cans of food that he could then donate to a food bank. He eventually filled three big boxes with canned goods.
“What I enjoyed about that project is that it was different,” Maurice says. “I really wanted to make a difference. I hope people never have to use their video or the fingerprint cards. I don’t want it ever to come to that point. But they are a good safety net.”
Maurice is 18 years old and will turn 19 in November. He will graduate from high school in four months, then he’ll get his chance to perform some serious, long-term service.
He’s received plenty of peculiar looks from classmates as he talks about the Church’s missionary program. When it comes to Church subjects—confusion over what missions are or questions about the Word of Wisdom—Maurice is the one who students turn to. At Coral Gables Senior High, Maurice is the school’s only Latter-day Saint.
“People at school ask me about missions all the time, and I’m glad to explain. For many of them, it’s hard to comprehend that I would want to do this. They’re amazed when I tell them we go for two years and that nobody’s making us go. I’m definitely going on a mission.
“My dad was baptized when he was in his 20s, so he never went on a mission,” he adds. “The only person in my family who has gone on a mission is my uncle. So I see a mission as me starting a tradition in our family.”
Throughout his life, Maurice has played a small part in the lives of a lot of people. Coral Gables students who have been tutored by Maurice are passing math tests, and Maurice can feel that he contributed to their successes. Parents have recorded information about their children on file—just in case. They can thank Maurice for that. And there he is, wheeling a patient from one room to another at the hospital. No big deal? Perhaps. But it’s another small thing Maurice finds time to do.
Maybe it won’t be exactly how Maurice envisioned it after all.
One day in the future, the football star might just turn to his children and talk about a guy he knew in high school. “Kids,” he’ll say, “Maurice is the guy who taught me math.”

Lucio Gil Díez, bishop of the Belén Ward, Santa Cruz Bolivia Equipetrol Stake, finds one of his primary concerns is helping new converts stay committed. “I know how it feels to be new in the Church,” he says. As a young man out of work, he went with a family member to a chapel under construction. He was introduced as an “investigator.” “What is that?” he asked, looking around the construction site. “I haven’t come to investigate anything.” But he soon did investigate and eventually join the Church. He was called as a bishop for the first time at age 27.

Knowing how important finding friends can be to new converts, Bishop Díez supports weekly fellowship evenings held on Mutual nights—as do many wards and stakes throughout Bolivia—to encourage greater love and friendship among members, investigators, and new converts. “The ward is invited to come together Thursday evenings, and many bring friends along. Each week a different family takes charge. It’s a lot like a family home evening,” he explains.

When someone joins the Church, the ward is invited to the baptism, and the new member is invited to the fellowship evenings. “We feed them spiritually,” explains Bishop Díez, “and we give them callings.” In one family, baptized only eight months, the wife is already serving as Relief Society president; her husband, as elders quorum secretary; and their son, as deacons quorum president.

Rex: Student discouragement is not limited to entering freshmen, or even to undergraduates. By far my worst experience with discouragement occurred during my first year of law school. It was caused by my losing perspective.
Day after day I would put in long hours of preparation and then sit in class and be amazed that seemingly everyone of my classmates could come up with all kinds of brilliant insights while all I could do was sit there and say to myself, “Gee, I wish I’d thought of that.” I honestly wondered during those first few months if I was destined to flunk out. I have since discovered that this is a common phenomenon, and it is not limited to law students. From conversations with some of you, I’ve learned that many face the same challenge: today’s BYU students are very well prepared, and some often sit in class thinking that everyone else is getting it better than they are. My own experience taught me that another important antidote for discouragement is to never give up on yourself. Remember the fundamental principle that for any really top quality school—and BYU clearly qualifies—if you’re good enough to get in, you’re good enough to get out.

Amy trudged along the sidewalk, dragging her hand across the slats of the wooden fence that surrounded Sister Pedersen’s yard. It’s not fair, she thought. Why do I have to stay indoors reading the newspaper to an old blind lady while everyone else is going to the movies with Emily. And how can I ever be Emily’s friend if I can’t go to the movie with her?
Grudgingly Amy walked up the steps to Sister Pedersen’s house and knocked on the door.
The door swung open, and there stood eighty-year-old Sister Pedersen.
“It’s me, Amy, Sister Pedersen.”
“Come on in, Amy, and sit down here in this armchair. I believe in taking care of business first. Shall I pay you each day you come?” Sister Pedersen asked, opening her purse.
“No, ma’am. Mother said that I shouldn’t take money for reading to you. In family home evening we agreed to work on serving others, and you’re my assignment.”
Sister Pedersen snapped her purse shut, nodded her head, and said, “You may read to me now.”
Amy struggled through reading the newspaper’s front-page articles. She wondered how anyone could consider this a pleasure.
After about forty-five minutes, Sister Pedersen interrupted, “Let’s stop now, Amy. Do you like treasures?”
“I suppose so. What kind of treasures?”
“Follow me, and you’ll see,” Sister Pedersen told her.
“This is my treasure room,” Sister Pedersen announced, as she guided Amy into a small room with several cabinets filled with collectibles: red goblets, silk flowers in painted vases, tiny dolls in native costumes, crystal paperweights, and bright blue plates. “It’s like an antique shop!” she exclaimed, rushing from one cabinet to another to peer at the treasures.
“You probably wonder why a blind lady keeps so many ornaments,” Sister Pedersen said. “When I touch the smooth glass objects or the soft silk fabrics, my fingers experience beauty.”
Amy watched the old lady gently rub a delicate bird fashioned of blown glass. She traced the china roses on a pink vase. Then she picked up a crystal ball etched with an intricate pattern.
“Go ahead. Touch them, Amy,” Sister Pedersen coaxed.
Fascinated by the beauty of the bird, Amy timidly picked it up from the table. It was a swan with its neck arched proudly and its wings spread wide, ready to take flight.
“This swan is wonderful!” Amy whispered.
“A glassblower made it for me when I was very young. He created that lovely bird from liquid glass, and then let me feel all the glass figures in his store. Since that day, whenever I touch my swan, I know that I, too, have ‘seen’ beauty. Now, you look around, and don’t be afraid to handle everything. I’ll go prepare some refreshments for us. I remember how hungry young people are after school.”
Amy held the swan and imagined herself a young blind girl. Hearing sounds of laughter outside, she set the swan down and leaned over the table to look out the window. Emily and all her friends were returning from the movie. Amy didn’t feel as bad about missing it as she thought she would. As she turned away from the window, Amy’s hand accidentally bumped the swan, knocking it to the floor. She quickly picked up the pieces and frantically put them into her pocket.
Sister Pedersen called, “Come downstairs, Amy, and have some biscuits and milk. Then you’d better hurry home, or your mother might not let you come again.”
Amy gulped down her snack nervously. She was too afraid to say anything about the broken glass swan. She said good-bye and quickly left the house.
What should I do? she wondered. I can’t go back, no matter what Mother says. As Amy shut the gate, she looked up and saw Sister Pedersen waving to her. It made her feel worse, somehow.
Walking home from school the next day, Amy passed Sister Pedersen’s house and sighed with relief. At least she wasn’t supposed to read to Sister Pedersen until next week. But she still felt awful, and when she got home, she emptied a container of all the money she had saved and counted it carefully. “I hope it’s enough,” she muttered as she went to find her mother.
After school Monday, Amy slowly approached Sister Pedersen’s house, clutching a white box. When the door opened, she said, “It’s Amy, Sister Pedersen.”
“Come in, Amy. I didn’t think this was the day for your visit, but you’re welcome any time.”
After they sat down, Amy carefully opened the box and placed the new swan in Sister Pedersen’s hands. Swallowing nervously, Amy said, “This is a replacement for the one that I broke. I’m awfully sorry. It was an accident.”
“It’s all right, Amy. I heard it break. I’m glad that you told me, though,” Sister Pedersen said, adding, “I’m sure this bird cost you quite a lot of money, and I want you to keep it and enjoy its beauty. You have given me something more important. You have been an honest and good friend.”
When she left to go home, Amy happily turned at the gate to call good-bye to Sister Pedersen, her new friend, who stood in the doorway, waving.

Several years ago one of my sons signed up for the most difficult and advanced BYU math class his prerequisites would allow.

I asked him, “Is that class required for your degree?”

“No.”

“Won’t taking it hurt your GPA?”

“Probably.”

“Well, then, why are you taking it?”

He replied, “Because it interests me and I will never have this opportunity again.”

When I saw his textbook, filled with the longest equations I had ever seen, I thought, “He’s doomed.” The class was graded on a straight curve, and, not unexpectedly, his grade was among those in the lower half of the class.

Months later, when I asked him about his experience, he said, “It was gnarly. But I’m glad I took that class because I understand things I never did before.”

Now I have to add in here that we recently talked to that son—he is a graduate student on the East Coast—and he mentioned that he had just set the curve on his graduate mathematics test. I couldn’t help but think back to his BYU experience. “Weren’t you wise to take that class that was beyond your capacity?” I asked.

One cold winter morning when I was about eleven years old, I woke up with the strongest feeling that something was wrong. I went upstairs to see my parents, but they weren’t there. In about five or ten minutes the phone rang, and it was my mother calling from the hospital. She told me that my father had been in a car accident.
My father worked late hours at a dairy that was an hour’s drive from home. That night he had had to stay past his usual quitting time. As he was driving home, he fell asleep and his car rolled about five times. My father was severely injured when he was thrown through the windshield. He landed in a puddle of mud and snow. The cold helped stop the bleeding, but when he was taken to the hospital, the doctors who examined him didn’t expect him to live.
I’ll never forget the bishop and his two counselors coming to our home that afternoon. They gathered our family together, and the bishop offered a prayer that my father’s life would be spared and that he would return to his normal health. As I listened to the prayer, I had a very warm, strong feeling that my father wouldn’t pass away.
He was in a coma for three weeks, but the bishop’s prayer was answered. In fact, a highway patrolman, a friend of my bishop’s, wrote a book in which he talked about the worst accident he had ever seen, in which the man’s life was spared. That man was my father.

When I was a little girl, I thought Christmas was heaven on earth. Between cookies and candy, parties and presents, everything was perfect. Everything waited for me to tear it open or munch on it.
In the midst of all this, my mother said, “Remember that Jesus is the reason for the season.” She went with us to sing carols to the ward members. She would suggest that we part with a few of our precious cookies and give them to a neighbor or a teacher. All of this service was of little interest to me. I wanted to go to Christmas parties.
As I progressed into my teenage years, Christmas lost the sparkle and magic. My parents had divorced, and we had moved away from my grandparents and my friends. It became a hassle. I hated having to split my holidays between homes, and I was annoyed that I had to participate in my new stepfamily’s traditions. The neighbors were extra sweet and thoughtful at Christmas—almost too sweet and thoughtful, it seemed to me.
As a senior in high school, I decided that I was going to try harder to focus on that cliché about Christmas. I was going to find a way to appreciate the “reason for the season.” I offered to help with my high school’s Festival of Trees.
Each year various clubs and sports teams raised money, decorated a tree, and bought gifts for every member of a family they sponsored. For one week before Christmas break, the trees were put on display for the community. At the end of the week, the families being sponsored were invited to a special program to have treats and pick up their trees.
All along I found that changing my attitude was harder than I’d expected. By the time the night of the party came I never wanted to see another Christmas tree or curly ribbon again. I’d even had my fill of Christmas carols. But the party came anyway.
I glanced at my watch and at Kim, my co-chair for the evening. I reviewed the commons area and went through my mental checklist. Everything looked good. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the first family timidly walk in the front doors. Whipping out my trusty list, I walked toward them, grinned, and said, “Merry Christmas! This is your host. She’ll take you to your tree.”
The evening went great. Even I was enjoying myself, I found.
I had just turned to tell a host that the last family was there when I noticed one of our janitors, Jay, standing beside me.
“Hi, Jay. Do you need my help with something?”
“No. But I do have a question for you.”
He hesitated so long that I finally nodded and said, “Okay, what’s that?”
“What is it that you know that I don’t?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You must know something that I don’t know, because you haven’t quit smiling, and I can’t figure out why.”
I gave him a funny look and said, “Well, it’s Christmastime, Jay.”
He stared blankly at me for a moment, muttered something I didn’t quite catch, and shuffled off toward the janitor’s closet.
As I watched him walk away, I thought about how often he described Christmas as just a holiday for kids who didn’t get what real life was like. Jay had experienced many disappointments in life and hardly ever seemed happy.
At that moment I had what the Prophet Joseph Smith described as a stroke of “pure intelligence” when I realized Jay was right (see Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith [2007], 132). I did know something Jay didn’t know, but until then I had not really let it sink in.
I knew there is a God in heaven who loved me enough to send His Son to be born in a lowly manger, live a life of intense trial, and be resurrected and atone for my sins so that I could have happiness and hope. I had a knowledge of the reality of the Savior. I knew why we celebrate Christmas: so people who are followers of Christ would be reminded of who and why He is, and also that they might be reminded of their commitment to strive to be like Him.
Christmas is an opportunity to feel love and kindness in a world that may sometimes seem dreary and hopeless. I was in the middle of a program to ease the burdens of the poor families in my community, and I knew I had done a good job. But I also knew that I had missed someone. There was a man in that crowd who needed that love and hope just as much, if not more, than everyone else there, and I had shrugged him off.
With this realization fresh on my mind, I turned to see if Jay was still around. He deserved an answer. I couldn’t see him, but I had to find him. I thrust my checklist into Kim’s hands and hurried off with no explanation. I searched every inch of the school that wasn’t locked up. My heart sank as I realized that he was gone. I fought tears as I trudged back to the commons area.
“Well, it’s Christmastime, Jay.” What kind of answer was that? How could I have been so insensitive? Jay knew that I had something more, but I had not really answered him.
The moment I got home I knew what I had to do. I sat down and wrote Jay the most sincere Christmas card I have ever given anyone. He had been the key influence in my epiphany about the reason for Christmas, and he deserved to know what I knew. I left the card for him at the school office.
I have no idea what Jay thought of that card, or if he even read it. I saw him a few more times before Christmas break, then off and on for the rest of the year, but he never said anything to me. But every time I walked past him the hope rose in my heart that maybe, just maybe, his Christmas had been a little lighter because I answered his question. And I know my Christmases will be forever changed, because I came to realize for myself that focusing on Christ as the “reason for the season” is so much more than a cliché.

As Church members unearthed their ancestral past, Sister Stoffers began wondering how they might experience the joy of serving in the temple on their ancestors’ behalf, given the expense of traveling to the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple.
Considering her resources, she remembered the youth and adults in her home ward near Ogden, Utah, USA. With their enthusiasm to serve, could they fill the gap and help their brothers and sisters in Barbados?
Sister Stoffers’s home-ward bishop liked the plan and rallied the support of youth and adults. Soon, names from Barbados were being shared instantly on FamilySearch.
Now, as often as their schedule permits, a battalion of youth converge on the Ogden Utah Temple, where Bishop Rob Smout pulls from a stack of ordinance-ready printouts to divvy among the youth. The talkative youth grow whisper quiet as they contemplate the unusually spelled names of people with whom they have no connection but feel a spiritual kinship.
Participation has been widespread across the ward. On certain Saturdays, a family of five boys arrives early at the temple to enjoy the sunrise over the Wasatch mountains before performing baptisms.
“It’s become a ward quest,” said Bishop Smout. “It has united the ward. Many have become involved and take names routinely, including those who haven’t attended the temple in years. Others have come back into activity to participate.”