Gospel Story Finder

I sank into my seat for geometry just before the bell rang. That was close. I was still learning how to navigate the halls of my new high school. I pulled out my math homework and began rummaging through my backpack for a pencil.
“Psst … Sherilyn,” the guy behind me hissed.
I turned around to face Gary, a guy I had talked to only a few times since the beginning of the school year. We were in the same Spanish class later in the day, but I didn’t know him well.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you have your Spanish book with you?” he inquired.
A sinking realization hit me as I pictured my Spanish book where I had left it on my bedroom floor.
“Sorry, I don’t have it with me,” I replied. “I left it at home.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You know, I totally forgot to do the homework,” I remarked, frowning.
My Spanish teacher consistently checked to see if everyone had done the homework. “There goes another zero for me,” I thought. “Just what I need at the start of the year.”
“Do you want to copy mine?” he asked.
Copying homework was common at this school, and no one thought anything of it. You could walk down the halls and see people sprawled on the floor, blatantly copying their friends’ work. He was trying to be friendly, I’m sure, but I couldn’t do that. It would be dishonest, and I wouldn’t feel right doing it.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I wouldn’t really feel comfortable doing that,” I said.
He paused for a moment, smiled at me, and then he said something I will never forget: “I didn’t think you would. Actually, I didn’t even do mine.”
So what was he doing? Trying to test me? I was actually surprised that he would know enough about me to know I wouldn’t copy his work. It was only the second week of school, and I hadn’t known him the previous year.
“You’re Mormon, aren’t you?” he asked.
I said yes. We talked for a few minutes, and then our teacher started the class. I reflected on this incident for the rest of the day. I’d only talked to this guy a few times, yet somehow he knew that I, a new freshman in a school of more than 2,000, was a member of the Church. How?
Then I had another thought. What if I had accepted his offer? Not only would it have made me look stupid, because he hadn’t even done the homework, but how would that have affected his idea of how Mormons behave?
That experience made me sit a little taller the rest of the year. I knew he was watching me and that other people I didn’t even know were watching as well.

One beautiful morning a salesman sold us a can of chemical cleaner to be used on stainless steel sinks, drinking fountains, and other types of metal. I decided to try it out on the brass light switch plates, which were covered with film and grime. After polishing a half dozen with good results, I went into the boys rest room where there was a larger plate with three switches on it. I wiped it off with the chemical, and was reaching for my damp sponge, when I heard a crackling sound. I turned to see flames shooting out of the plate clear to the ceiling! I raced down the hall shrieking. “Fire! Fire! I’ve set the church on fire!” Ace came bounding down the hall into the rest room. The fire was out and it was pitch dark. The switch box had completely burned out. I learned that chemicals and electricity don’t mix.

It was Saturday morning, and that meant it was time for weekly chores.
“Olivia, it’s your turn to pull weeds,” Mom said.
Olivia scrunched her face into a frown. “I don’t like weeding.”
“It can be fun if you change your attitude,” Mom said with a smile. “And you can get it done quickly if you get to work!”
Olivia trudged outside and plopped down on the bottom stair on the side of the house. She glared at the weeds in the flower bed. After a minute, she slowly got on her knees and began to pull a weed.
Forty minutes later, Olivia had pulled only a few weeds. She had spent most of her time daydreaming about ice cream and games she could be playing with her friend Lily. The tiny weeds that were left to pull looked like an entire forest to Olivia. She sighed. She was hot, and this was boring!
“It’s not fair!” she said to herself. She thought of her younger brother, who had been assigned to dust the furniture. “Why doesn’t Brian have to weed? He always gets the easy jobs!”
After pulling a few more weeds, Olivia was tired and ready to quit. She sat back and looked at her family’s cat, Link, who was sunning himself on the driveway.
“Here, kitty kitty kitty!” she called.
Link ran to her and rubbed his face against her arm. Running her fingers through his silky fur, Olivia quickly forgot about her weeding. She tipped her head sideways, making her ponytail wiggle so Link would bat at her hair.
Then she heard Mom’s voice from the kitchen window: “Olivia, are you done weeding?”
Hoping that Mom was too busy to check her work, Olivia opened her mouth to say yes. But as she did, a bad feeling came inside her. She hesitated. She thought about being baptized a few days before. She knew she had promised Heavenly Father that she would obey His commandments so that she could have the Holy Ghost with her. She remembered that she could not feel the Spirit if she lied.
Suddenly, Olivia really wanted to tell the truth. She knew this strong feeling was from the Holy Ghost, and it filled her with courage.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t finished.”
“Well, you’d better finish or you won’t have time to play with your friends today,” Mom said.
Olivia still didn’t want to finish weeding, but she felt happy anyway. She thought Heavenly Father would be glad that she had decided to be honest. She jumped up and ran into the house.
“Mom, Mom!” Olivia said. “Guess what happened?” She told Mom about wanting to lie but then deciding to tell the truth. “I chose the right! I stayed clean, and I feel so good!”
“I’m proud of you,” Mom said.
Olivia smiled and hugged Mom. Then she skipped outside to finish weeding.

Building anything in Alaska in the winter can prove quite a challenge, and constructing a temple is no exception. When work on the Anchorage Temple had to be delayed because of the weather, the youth in the area decided to give themselves a preview of what having a temple in their city would be like.
So they built a scale replica of the temple out of snow bricks, complete with an Angel Moroni statue on top. With a little help from the temple’s architect, who gave a youth fireside prior to the project, they came up with a pretty good likeness. The snow replica is about one-fifth the size of the real thing, which the youth can hardly wait to see.

Brad wants to be just like Nathan when it comes to serving in the Church, too. When they received the Aaronic Priesthood, Nathan started passing the sacrament. Brad also wanted to pass the sacrament, but the routes around the chapel didn’t allow enough room to maneuver his wheelchair.

Nathan worked with the bishop to change the routes. The new version assigned all of the front pews to Brad, which left plenty of room for his wheelchair. Then he and Brad started passing the sacrament together.

This became clear to me some years ago when, as a young father, I needed to purchase some temple clothing. Upon entering the store, my attention was drawn to a sign on the counter that read “For Latter-day Saints Only.” The message jolted me. In my mind, an argument ensued. Why does it say “For Latter-day Saints Only”? I asked myself. Why doesn’t it say something like “For Endowed Church Members”? Why does it raise this issue of being a “Latter-day Saint”?

The years since have tempered my impetuous nature. That argumentative encounter of long ago has become a treasured, defining moment. The experience taught me that just being a member of this Church is not enough. Nor is merely going through the motions of membership sufficient in this day of cynicism and unbelief. The spirituality and vigilance of a saint are required.

Simon had had enough! Joe and Bob had been bragging about their pets all afternoon. Joe had two large German shepherds and a furry hamster, and Bob had a calico cat and six goldfish.
Simon didn’t have any dogs, cats, hamsters, or fish. But he did have a secret. “Come outside,” he said. “I’ll show you my pets.”
“What pets?” asked Joe.
“You don’t have any pets,” Bob scoffed.
Without answering, Simon led them into his backyard. He took them all the way to the back fence, which was overgrown with ivy. He jiggled the fence, then waited, listening, and jiggled it again. The leaves rustled.
Joe and Bob watched wide-eyed as a large brown lizard scooted out of the ivy and took refuge in the tall weeds by the garden shed.
“That’s one of my pets,” Simon told them. “His name is Leonard. He lives right here in the ivy and takes care of himself. I don’t even have to feed him. Mom and Dad are glad we have him, though, because he eats bugs.”
“Lucky you,” said Joe. “My mom doesn’t like lizards. If one shows up in our yard, she chases it away.”
“So does my cat,” Bob sighed.
“Come and see my next pet,” said Simon, glad that his friends liked his first one.
He led them to a shady corner of the yard where the ground was moist. “This is Oliver,” he said, pointing at a small, spotted toad sitting on a mossy rock. “He eats insects too.”
The boys watched with interest as Oliver took three short hops.
“My third pet lives over here,” said Simon, heading for the corner of the garage. He pointed up at the eaves. “That’s Edith.”
A large brown spider hung in the middle of a filmy web. “You should see her web at night,” said Simon. “The moonlight makes it shine. You can come over some evening to see it,” he offered.
“I’d like that,” said Joe.
Bob nodded his agreement.
“I have one more pet to show you,” said Simon.
He took them to the peppertree and pointed up into its spreading branches. “You have to look very carefully, or you’ll miss her,” he told them.
Peering through the leaves, the boys saw a small, gray bird sitting motionless on a nest.
“I call her Penelope,” Simon explained. “She chose our yard out of all the yards in the neighborhood for her nest. She knows she’s safe here; we won’t hurt her. Her eggs are almost ready to hatch. I’m going to watch the babies grow and learn to fly.”
“Boy! I wish a bird would build a nest in my yard,” said Bob, with a wistful sigh,
“A bird wouldn’t feel safe in your yard,” Joe pointed out. “Your cat would scare it.”
“I know,” agreed Bob glumly. “Will you let us see the baby birds when they hatch, Simon?”
“Sure,” answered Simon, “as long as you don’t get too close. We don’t want to scare them.”
“Hey, Simon, whenever you want to visit my cat or watch my goldfish, let me know,” offered Bob.
“And you can play with my dogs and hamster, too,” Joe added promptly.
“Thanks!” said Simon. “And you can come to see my pets anytime you want to. It’ll be fun to share my secret pets with my friends.”

We had lived in Hawaii for two years with my husband, their father, who was a student pastor in a small church. But the children had been subject to such constant extreme physical abuse because their father believed “the blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil” (Prov. 20:30) that I could not stand it. As their punishments worsened, I knew that part of my duty as a mother was to protect them from such treatment. So after much soul-searching and prayer, I knew I had no choice but to leave him and make a new and better life for them. My own parents were in the mid-West, but I could not go home. Not only was it a matter of finances, but my father had recently suffered a major stroke and was in no condition to have small children around. I didn’t know a soul in or near the Bay area, and I never felt more alone in my life. Only the fact that the children needed me kept me going.

We must have been a pathetic sight—me in my Hawaiian loose-fitting dress with wilted flower necklaces still around my neck, and three blurry-eyed, very tired children, the oldest one barely five. It was 2:30 A.M., and the huge San Francisco airport was nearly empty. I felt totally lost and so alone.
I approached a man at one of the service counters and asked how far it was to town. He told me that the last bus was just about to leave, and if I hurried, I might still be able to catch it. He helped me with our luggage, and stopped the bus just as it prepared to leave. I didn’t even have time to thank him before we were whisked away.
The station at the end of the line was dark and closed, and as the other passengers on the bus quickly scattered into the night, the empty bus pulled out to wherever it was going, and left me with three small children, four suitcases, and two small trunks, standing on a sidewalk somewhere in San Francisco.
I was beginning to show signs of panic when a custodian came out of the bus station, locking the door behind him. I asked him if there was some place I could use a telephone to call a cab, or if he knew of a hotel nearby. Blessedly, he knew of a clean little hotel about six blocks away, and he offered to obtain a furniture dolly from the building to take my luggage to the hotel. By 4 A.M. with the children in bed, I sank into an exhausted sleep.
We spent the next two days just relaxing—as much as I could relax under the circumstances. We ate at a nearby restaurant and spent a lot of time at a little park two blocks from the hotel. The children ran and played without a care in the world. I was thankful that they were too young to realize the situation we were in.
On my third day, I knew that decisions had to be made. I didn’t know what area of town would be suitable to live in, I didn’t know where to begin to look for work, and I didn’t know what to do with the children while I worked. I certainly could not pick out a name from an ad in the newspaper and feel safe about leaving the little ones with them. I only knew that if we stayed in the hotel much longer, my money would be gone and then I’d have worse problems.
I telephoned three different ministers of the particular church I had been associated with, and assured each that I was not asking for money, only advice. Each man asked me the same question: “Are you a member of our faith?” I answered honestly that I was so bitter and confused at the moment that I wasn’t sure what faith I had, if any. And each one of the three gave me the same response; they couldn’t help me because they had too many of their own people to take care of. My bitterness grew deeper, and I wondered where I could turn for help.
When I had left Hawaii, some friends saw us off. One of them happened to be an inactive Mormon, and when he said goodbye, he added, “If you ever get in a bind and need help, call my church. They’ll help you.”
I knew absolutely nothing of Mormons except that they had a fine Tabernacle Choir. I did not like the idea of begging for help, least of all help from some strange church that I’d never even visited; but I was desperate, and there seemed no other choice. In searching the telephone book, I found an endless number of Mormon churches and listings, so I picked one that was called a mission home. I thought that a mission home would be more apt to be compassionate. A young elder answered the phone, and I told him pretty much the same thing I had told the three ministers: that I did not need money, but I was in desperate need of advice. His reply was that he was quite new to the area and he himself could not help me, but if I would give him my name and phone number, he would have someone else call me. I hung up, half-suspecting never to hear from them again.
To my surprise, within ten minutes I received a call from a lovely lady who listened to my story and then agreed that I could use some assistance. She told me to get all my luggage together, call a taxi, and meet her in thirty minutes at the Berkeley bus terminal. After she described her car and what she would be wearing, she added, “By the way, are you a member of the Church?”
“Here it comes again,” I thought cynically, but into the phone I simply said, “No, I’m not.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, “I just wondered. See you in half an hour.”
I hurried my things together, cleaned up the children, checked out of the hotel, and headed for Berkeley. I was surprised, and a bit suspicious, at the woman’s willingness to help a total stranger, but at this point I was willing to take advantage of any offer.
Her first move was to treat us to lunch. Then I learned that she was the wife of a man named O. Leslie Stone, a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy who was then the stake president there. She got us settled into a boarding house and promised to get me the names of some potential babysitters. All this, in spite of the fact that I emphasized to her my strong bitterness toward churches of any kind, and my intention to stay that way. I couldn’t get over it!
She didn’t seem to care that I was so antagonistic, nor did she try to convert me or criticize me. She even seemed to act as though I was doing her a favor by letting her help me. A Bible verse kept echoing through my mind: “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.” (John 13:35.)
Over the next few days, Sister Stone came every day. She did, indeed, find me a babysitter, a woman from her church. Also she helped me find and get moved into a small, furnished apartment, and she gave me the name of a man to see about a temporary job. Still she didn’t preach to me. It amazed me; and still that same scripture kept flitting in and out of my thoughts, “if ye have love one to another.”
In the apartment I rented, I found a small Mormon book entitled, Articles of Faith, by James E. Talmage. I never knew if Sister Stone secretly placed it there, or if it had been left by the former tenant. At any rate, I began reading it after the children were in bed at night; not because I was interested, but because there was nothing else to do.
During those first few weeks, not a Saturday went by that Sister Stone didn’t stop and ask if we would like to go to church with her on Sunday. When I would politely refuse, she never pushed the issue; but still she regularly asked. At the same time, I became more and more engrossed in the book. I had never heard of such things as I found in that book, though I had studied the Bible faithfully most of my life. Much of what I read I either wondered about or outright disagreed with, so I started jotting down notes of such items as I came across it.
One Saturday when Sister Stone came by, I still refused to go to church with her, but I did tell her that I had some questions about it, and that if she would send her pastor to talk to me I’d discuss them with him. In just a few days I was visited by a man named Marvin Turner and his wife, who said they were stake missionaries and had come to answer my questions. Almost defiantly I brought out my written questions, seven pages in all, and told them that if they could answer them I would listen to whatever they wanted to teach me. Brother Turner’s response was that he did not have all the answers, but he knew that through the Church he could find me logical, reasonable answers. Through the patience and tenderness of the Turners, I finally reached the time when I was willing to pray about the truthfulness of those things that they taught me. I consented to go to church with them. Some time later, I was baptized. However, when I moved to southern California, I lost track of my new friends. I remarried and had other children.
That was many years ago. Now I sit in sacrament meeting and watch while one of my sons passes the sacrament and another one blesses it; I watch the faith and testimonies of each of the children grow; and my thoughts turn toward people who have joined the church as a result of different ones spreading the gospel; and I think too of our kindred dead who have had their baptisms and endowments and sealings done through our genealogy work.
Ultimately my thoughts turn toward a gracious Sister Stone and a sharing, loving Turner family somewhere among the vast number of Saints who, I have no doubt, are still serving the Lord through loving and caring. I ask myself how I can ever repay those people who cared so much for someone so rebellious long ago. And the answer comes to me loud and clear: “Go, and do thou likewise.” (Luke 10:37.)

Many years ago I told a story in conference that I think I will repeat. It is a story about a baseball player. I realize that some of you in various parts of the world do not know much about baseball. You do not even care about it. But this story brings with it a tremendous lesson.
The event occurred in 1912. The World Series was being played, and this was the final game to determine the winner of the series. The score was 2-1 in favor of the New York Giants, who were in the field. The Boston Red Sox were at bat. The man at bat knocked a high, arching fly. Two New York players ran for it. Fred Snodgrass in center field signaled to his associate that he would take it. He came squarely under the ball, which fell into his glove. But he did not hold it there. The ball went right through his grasp and fell to the ground. A howl went up in the stands. The fans could not believe that Snodgrass had dropped the ball. He had caught hundreds of fly balls before. But now, at this most crucial moment, he had failed to hold the ball, and the Red Sox went on to win the world championship.
Snodgrass came back the following season and played brilliant ball for nine more years. He lived to be 86 years of age, dying in 1974. But after that one slip, for 62 years, whenever he was introduced to anybody, the expected response was, “Oh, yes, you’re the one who dropped the ball.”

Cory stared at the clock in the Primary room. “When will this be over?” he wondered.
Now that Cory was in middle school, Primary didn’t seem as fun anymore. He knew all the scripture stories and the answers to all the questions. He thought the games and songs were for little kids.
Cory slumped in his chair. Then he remembered something he wanted to ask Austin about his new computer game. “I need your help on this one level,” he whispered.
Sister Evans tapped Cory on his shoulder. “Please sing,” she said. Cory waited for Sister Evans to look away and then finished talking to Austin.
On the drive home from church, Mom asked, “How was Primary?”
“Fine,” Cory said. He didn’t remember much about it.
“Sister Evans asked me if she could come over for a visit tomorrow after school,” Mom said.
Cory swallowed hard. “Um, OK.”
The next day at school, Cory worried about what Sister Evans would say. “She probably wants to remind me that I shouldn’t talk during Primary,” he thought.
That afternoon, Cory was playing his new game when the doorbell rang. He looked up to see Mom inviting Sister Evans in.
“Hi, Cory,” Sister Evans said. She sat down and got right to the point. “How can I help make Primary a place you want to be?”
Cory started to say he liked Primary fine, but it seemed like Sister Evans wanted to hear what he really thought. So he told her everything—how he knew all the stories and how the games and songs were for younger kids.
“I think I understand,” Sister Evans said. “You’ve been in Primary a long time. Sometimes when we do the same things over again, it can seem boring.” Cory nodded. “Well,” Sister Evans said, “I don’t want Primary to be boring. I brought a scripture to share with you. I think it might help.”
Sister Evans opened her scriptures. “This was written by the Apostle Paul,” she said. “See if you can tell what he’s talking about.” Then she read, “‘But now are they many members, yet but one body.
“‘And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee: nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you. …
“‘Now ye are the body of Christ, and members in particular’” (1 Corinthians 12:20–21, 27).
Cory asked, “When it says ‘members,’ is that like members of the Church?”
“Exactly,” Sister Evans said. “Just like every part of the body is important, every person is needed at church. In Primary, you can be like one of those hands that Paul wrote about—a helping hand.”
“But I don’t teach the lesson or lead the songs,” Cory said.
“But when you answer questions, it helps others learn,” Sister Evans said. “And when you sing your best, the younger children feel more confident.”
“I’ll try,” Cory said. “Maybe you can call me your ‘right-hand man,’” he said, smiling.
On Sunday, Cory felt more excited to go to Primary than he had for a long time. He answered questions, and he tried to sing well so that the younger kids could hear the words.
Later, Sister Evans pointed to a boy in the Sunbeam class who was crying. “Would you mind sitting by Steven today?” Sister Evans asked Cory.
Cory sat next to Steven and helped him sing the songs. When Cory folded his arms for the prayer, Steven did too.
On the way home, Cory felt a little more grown-up. He had always known he was important to Heavenly Father. But now that he was a “right-hand man” in Primary, he knew he was also an important part of Heavenly Father’s Church.

Twenty-four out of twenty-five! They had tied! In a five-shot free throw playoff, Ray Swanson, a deacon from the 18th Ward, Pocatello Idaho West Stake, edged out his Indiana opponent to be declared the national winner in the 12–13 year-old division of the Elks Hoop Shoot contest. (He received a 2 1/2-foot-high trophy for his efforts and was greeted at the airport by schoolmates, city officials, and a pep band when he returned home.) To become eligible for the basketball free throw competition held in Kansas City, Missouri, Ray also won local, district, state, and Northwest Region titles. Since he began competing four years ago, he has won every local and district title in his age group and three state titles also. Ray is the teachers quorum secretary in his ward.

When I was little, a really big tornado hit a city called Joplin in Missouri, USA. My dad and many others decided to go help the people in Joplin who were hit by the tornado. I wanted to go too, but I was too young.
That night, we read the Book of Mormon, and I did not know what the words meant. But my mom taught me. One of the verses talked about how Alma the Younger and his friends were trying to get people to leave the church. Alma’s father tried talking to him, but Alma did not listen. So his father prayed that Alma and his friends would change their ways.
That gave me the idea of praying that the people in Joplin would be safe, as well as praying for my dad and many others who were trying to help. Every day when I woke up, I said a prayer to help the people in Joplin. When I said a prayer to bless the food before we ate, I also prayed that the people in Joplin would be safe. At family prayer I did the exact same thing. Finally, when I said my personal prayers before I went to bed, I prayed for the same thing one more time.
I continued to do the same thing every day, and finally my dad came home from Joplin. I continued to do the same thing for one more week after that. At the end of the week, I felt extremely happy about the choice I made to pray for the people in Joplin.

One who learned well the lesson of obedience was a kind and sincere man of humble means and circumstances. He joined the Church in Europe and, by diligently saving and sacrificing, immigrated to North America, to a new land, a strange language, different customs, but the same Church under the leadership of the same Lord whom he trusted and obeyed. He became the branch president of a little flock of struggling Saints in a somewhat unfriendly city of tens of thousands. He followed the program of the Church, although numbers were few and tasks were many. He set an example for his branch membership that was truly Christlike, and they responded with a love so rarely seen.
He earned a living with his hands as a tradesman.
His means were limited, but he always paid more than a tenth of his total earnings as tithing. He started a missionary fund in his little branch, and for months at a time he was the only contributor. When there were missionaries in his city, he fathered and fed them, and they never left his house without some tangible donation to their work and welfare. Church members from far away who passed through his city and visited his branch always received his hospitality and the warmth of his spirit and went on their way knowing they had met an unusual man, one of the Lord’s obedient servants.
Those who presided over him received his profound respect and his extra-special care. To him they were emissaries of the Lord; their wish was his command. He ministered to their physical comforts and was especially solicitous in his prayers, which were frequent, for their welfare. One Sabbath day, some visiting officials to his branch participated with him in no fewer than a dozen prayers in various meetings and visits to members. They left him at the day’s end with a feeling of exhilaration and spiritual uplift that kept them joyous throughout a four-hour drive in wintry weather and that now, after many years, warms the spirit and quickens the heart in retrospect.
Men of learning, men of experience sought out this humble, unlettered man of God and counted themselves fortunate if they could spend an hour with him. His appearance was ordinary, his English was halting and somewhat difficult to understand, his home was unpretentious. He didn’t own a car or a television; he wrote no books and preached no polished sermons and did none of the things to which the world usually pays attention. Yet the faithful beat a path to his door. Why? Because they wished to drink at his “fountain of truth.” Not so much what he said as what he did; not the substance of the sermons he preached, but the strength of the life he led.
To know that a poor man consistently and cheerfully gave at least twice a tenth to the Lord gave one a clearer insight into the true meaning of tithing. To see him minister to the hungry and take in the stranger made one know that he did it as he would do so to the Master. To pray with him and partake of his confidence of divine intercession was to experience a new medium of communication.
Well could it be said he kept the first and great commandment, and the second which is like unto it, that his bowels were full of charity toward all men, that virtue garnished his thoughts unceasingly, and that, consequently, his confidence waxed strong in the presence of God (see D&C 121:45). This man had the glow of goodness and the radiance of righteousness. His strength came from obedience.

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’s recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had hit bottom. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped comeback capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that hitting bottom does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

Testimonies abound in Tonga of the power of the priesthood as a means of bringing comfort or healing to those in distress. When 44-year-old Sione Siaki of Tongatapu fell ill with fever and pain, many feared he would die. The hospital in Tonga was full, but a nurse brought medication to his home. Day after day he suffered, for more than a month. “I was waiting to die,” says Brother Siaki. “Then our Relief Society president suggested a ward fast. She talked with our bishop, and twice our ward of 300 members fasted for me. Before the fasts, I couldn’t move. Two weeks after the second fast, I sat up and gradually got better. Now I am a temple worker. When I am in the temple, it comes straight into my mind that maybe this is why I was saved.”

On October 6, in the year 1536, a pitiful figure was led from a dungeon in Vilvorde Castle near Brussels, Belgium. For nearly a year and a half, the man had suffered isolation in a dark, damp cell. Now outside the castle wall, the prisoner was fastened to a post. He had time to utter aloud his final prayer, “Lord! open the king of England’s eyes,” and then he was strangled. Immediately, his body was burned at the stake. Who was this man, and what was the offense for which both political and ecclesiastical authorities had condemned him? His name was William Tyndale, and his crime was to have translated and published the Bible in English.
Tyndale, born in England about the time Columbus sailed to the new world, was educated at Oxford and Cambridge and then became a member of the Catholic clergy. He was fluent in eight languages, including Greek, Hebrew, and Latin. Tyndale was a devoted student of the Bible, and the pervasive ignorance of the scriptures that he observed in both priests and lay people troubled him deeply. In a heated exchange with a cleric who argued against putting scripture in the hands of the common man, Tyndale vowed, “If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough, shall know more of the Scripture than thou dost!”
He sought the approval of church authorities to prepare a translation of the Bible in English so that all could read and apply the word of God. It was denied—the prevailing view being that direct access to the scriptures by any but the clergy threatened the authority of the church and was tantamount to casting “pearls before swine” (Matthew 7:6).
Tyndale nevertheless undertook the challenging work of translation. In 1524 he traveled to Germany, under an assumed name, where he lived much of the time in hiding, under constant threat of arrest. With the help of committed friends, Tyndale was able to publish English translations of the New Testament and later the Old Testament. The Bibles were smuggled into England, where they were in great demand and much prized by those who could get them. They were shared widely but in secret. The authorities burned all the copies they could find. Nevertheless, within three years of Tyndale’s death, God did indeed open King Henry VIII’s eyes, and with publication of what was called the “Great Bible,” the scriptures in English began to be publicly available. Tyndale’s work became the foundation for almost all future English translations of the Bible, most notably the King James Version.1

Christmas was just a month away, and the perfect gift for my wife’s parents was nearing completion in our living room, where it had completely dominated the room for weeks.
Since Susan’s father had a bad back, her parents had a custom-made bed, larger than king size, with a hard side for her dad and a soft side for her mother, Elaine. Since it nearly filled the bedroom, the bed did cause a special problem. Elaine frequently complained. “None of our quilts are large enough. They are always pulling out at the bottom or slipping to one side or the other. I wish I could find a quilt large enough for that bed.”
And so in October Susan had decided to make a giant quilt for the bed.
After a number of trips to town she found just the right material, a festive flower print in warm pink colors that would fit perfectly in their bedroom. A lady in the ward was happy to lend us her large quilting frames. And when we finally got the frames up, and the quilt thumbtacked into place, the living room was totally filled. We pushed the piano into the hallway, and stored the furniture in every available space. And the home teachers visited us in the kitchen.
As for Susan, she spent every extra moment working on the quilt. It was her first, and she stayed up till late hours at night, quilting. When she finally came to bed, and we clasped hands in prayer, I could feel her fingertips, raw from the pin pricks. But slowly the quilting frames moved nearer to each other, as row by row the job got done.
It was hard to keep the quilt a surprise. All the time the quilting frames were up, Susan’s parents had not been invited into our home. This was sometimes embarrassing. One cold day Elaine came to our front door on some errand. Susan wasn’t home, and I answered the door. She must have thought me a very odd son-in-law, not to invite her in, but I passed objects back and forth, always keeping the door closed. Finally she left, obviously perplexed.
The night we took the frames down Susan was so excited and proud of her efforts, she couldn’t suppress a few tears. “I can’t wait to see mother’s reaction,” she said.
But those few tears would turn into a flood before Christmas.
The next morning, after I had left for school, Susan wrapped the nearly finished quilt in a plastic bag for safekeeping and decided to hide it in the partially remodeled family room. A carpenter had been working on new cupboards in there, and that evening he came again. The large plastic bag was in his way, so he moved it to the garage.
I guess I was the real culprit, though. It was the night to put out the garbage, and after I took the garbage cans out and emptied the wastebaskets from the various closets, I finally took out the garbage in the plastic bags.
When I came home the next day, Susan greeted me with red—but dry—eyes. Looking up from the cupboard where she was working, she said quietly, “There’s been kind of a tragedy today.”
Then the tears came. I held her in my arms while she wept, and finally she explained, “I guess the quilt went to the garbage.”
Indeed it had. Through her tears, Susan told me that she had missed the quilt about noon. Since I was away on a field trip and couldn’t be reached, she called her mother, explained about the quilt, the weeks of work, and about the the garbage. She and her mother, with our two-year-old son tagging along, had gone to the garbage dump and searched.
They wandered through row on row of heaped garbage, some of it already covered by dirt pushed there by the large equipment. There were a lot of plastic bags, but none that contained the soft pink quilt with the festive flowers.
“When did they pick your garbage up?” asked the man in charge.
“Early this morning.”
“It’s probably covered up by now, then. We don’t waste much time. Sorry.”
“Thanks anyway.”
There was little I could say to console my wife. The perfect Christmas gift was at the bottom of the garbage dump. It was two or three days before we could laugh about it, and even then, it was hesitant laughter.
There wasn’t time to start over. At least not enough time for one person to start over.
The story spread quickly. One neighbor told another of Susan’s tragedy. Soon the Relief Society president knocked at our door.
“We’ve all decided to help. We won’t take no for an answer. You get some more material, and I’ll have the women here—in shifts.”
Susan couldn’t find the same pink material. But she found a delicate white printed fabric with small red strawberries in squares—perfect for quilting. We got the frames up, and the women came. An army of women!
When I left for school in the morning, they were already there, needles piercing in and out. When I came home, the fourth shift was up. The frames were moving closer together.
Susan marveled at how rapidly some of the women worked; others were slower. But all of them worked carefully. Several worked all day—stopping at intervals to run home, prepare a meal, and then come back. They laughed as they worked, sharing stories. We’d only lived in the ward for a short time. Vague faces became warm and familiar.
In just a few days, they left as they had come. An army had advanced, conquered, and gone. And in the army’s wake, Susan held a second beautiful quilt, an occasional droplet of blood from a soldier’s finger the only evidence of the magic that had passed through our house.
Now we had a real surprise for Susan’s parents. They knew about the tragedy, and also knew that doing another quilt in so short a time was impossible. With real excitement we crammed the quilt into a too-small box and wrapped it. That way, they’d never guess what was in it.
And they didn’t. When Elaine opened the box on Christmas morning, and the strawberries quilted on delicate white fabric popped out, she cried. Susan cried, too. Soon we were all crying.
Six years have passed since that memorable Christmas. Now we are inclined to regard that quilt as the best Christmas present we’ve ever given—or received.

I have always enjoyed nature and the outdoors. I grew up in Boise, Idaho, and one of my favorite things to do when I was out of school in the summer was to go to my aunt’s ranch. There I herded cows, rode horses, swam in the canal, and often slept in the haystack under the stars.
Oh, how I admired the boys and girls who lived on ranches and farms! They had opportunities that those of us who were raised in the city never had.
However, within a half mile of where I lived in Boise was a river that ran through the city. There was a wooded area there that I loved to go to after school or on Saturdays. My dog was my pal, and we went there together and sailed boats or made whistles out of willows. We watched the beavers make dams and the fish swim in the water. We watched the birds build nests and hatch their young.
As I grew older, I joined the local Boy Scout troop and enjoyed hiking and camping in the summertime with my friends. Many of these boys were in Primary with me. My mother was Primary president, and my younger sister, Dorothy, and I were regular attenders.
My father, however, was not a member of the Church, and when I had my eighth birthday, I was not baptized.
I did have a testimony, though. I knew that God lived. My mother had taught me to pray and to thank Heavenly Father for all the things that I enjoyed. I often thanked him for the beauty of the earth and for the wonderful times that I had at the ranch and by the river and with the Scouts. I also learned to ask him for the things that I wanted or needed.
I went to all the Church meetings and activities, but it wasn’t until I was twelve that I really missed not being baptized. By that time, all my friends had been ordained deacons. Because I wasn’t an official member of the Church, I wasn’t able to do many of the things that they did. Passing the sacrament and building a fire to warm up the meetinghouse were only two of the responsibilities that I watched my friends do without me.
So my sister and I began coaxing our father to allow us to be baptized. We also prayed that he might say yes. We were overjoyed when he finally gave his consent, and I was baptized when I was thirteen years old. A whole new world opened up to me as I learned the responsibilities of being a member of the Church and holding the priesthood.
I’m grateful for the influence of the Church in those early years and for my mother’s teachings. Even though I wasn’t baptized until later than many children, I knew that God loved me and listened to me.

Transfusion number five, “Stand up to your difficulties,” comes from our great epic prizefight champion, Jack Dempsey. In Dempsey’s early career he had a fight contract which paid him two dollars for each of the fights he won, nothing for those he lost. Dempsey said that he used to be knocked down many times back in those days and each time he was knocked down he wanted to stay down because he knew that no one would ever try to hit him again until he started to get up. But he had to get up because he was hungry and he needed the two dollars. On one occasion he was knocked down 11 times, and 11 times he got up to win a two-dollar prizefight. Then Dempsey gave his famous formula: Anyone seeking success in athletics or in life must have two qualities. Number one, he must have the ability to give a big punch, and number two, he must have the ability to take a big punch.