Gospel Story Finder

May I share with you a beautiful missionary experience I encountered recently? I saw a miracle performed by one of your missionary sons who so dearly loved an investigator. I met this gentleman at a special fireside. He said, “I appreciate very much the young Mormon missionary who taught me the most important thing in life and gave me happiness. Sometime I would like to extend my sincere appreciation to the parents who taught him to so live the gospel.” With tears in his eyes, and as he was holding my hands, he said, “Oh, Elder Kikuchi, I thank our Heavenly Father for this glorious gospel,” and then he related the following story:
“One day eight years ago, on my way home from work, I was hit by a hit-and-run driver. For eleven days I was unconscious, and for two years I was in a hospital. When I was finally released from the hospital, my wife had left me and had taken the children with her. We had had a fine family life before the accident, but my life became a total wreck. I was lonesome and depressed, for I had lost my most precious possession—my family. I attempted suicide many times. My only living came from welfare. I was emotionally and physically exhausted; I had become a living vegetable. I couldn’t walk, so I would transport myself by rolling over on the floor and crawling on all fours.
“One evening I went to the hospital to see my doctor for the final results of a series of operations. He told me there was no hope for recovery. Though I had expected him to say so, it was still very shocking for me. All was lost. As I approached a railway bridge on my return from the doctor’s, I wept to see my own face in the wet reflection on the pavement. It was a pitiful sight.”
Brothers and sisters, just when he was about to jump in front of the oncoming train, he met one of your missionary sons.
Cottage meetings began immediately. In them, Mr. Sugiyama learned that the gospel is true, that Jesus Christ is our Savior, Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and the true church of God has been restored in this last dispensation.
As usual, missionaries invited him to church; however, because he couldn’t walk, he said he wouldn’t be able to come. But on the morning of the Sabbath, he awoke early and bravely headed for the church. Though it was close, it took him nearly three hours to traverse the distance between his home and the closest station to the Yokohama chapel. The Yokohama chapel is situated high upon a hill. From the station to the church it took him almost an hour, although ordinarily it would take a person only five minutes. He would cling to the wall, then fall down, only to struggle again to his feet. He finally reached the chapel where the sacrament was in progress. The missionaries had never expected him to come to church. But Brother Sugiyama felt the pure love of God from the missionaries and members and felt himself drawn to it.
Shortly afterward, Brother Sugiyama followed the Lord’s commandment by becoming baptized.
The morning following his baptism, he woke up bright and early. He stretched his legs out in preparation to roll over as usual. But this time, brothers and sisters, something was different. He felt strength in his legs, and his whole body surged with power. He sat up and gradually, eventually, stood on his feet. He hadn’t stood in years without other supports. He walked away that morning! He found that his body had been made whole.
Brother Sugiyama said, “Love hath made me whole, and I will go in peace in the Lord’s way.” Brothers and sisters, miracles are not the only evidences of the true Church of God, but we can learn much from the miracle performed by the Lord through a great young Mormon missionary who loved his investigator so much.

After the game I checked my journal and found that on Saturday, December 13, 1985, I attended the BYU versus Pepperdine basketball game with a friend. Here’s what I wrote, but keep in mind that I was eighteen years old at the time:

We got there way early. In the program there was an updated section on those missionaries who are on the BYU team and are on missions now. It was so cool to read about Marty Haws [whom I’d gone to high school with] and Brian Taylor [who is now Elder Brian K. Taylor]. About seven minutes into the game, I looked across the court from us and saw President Jeffrey R. Holland [the BYU president at the time] and his family. I really wanted to have him sign the book he wrote that I’d bought Mom and Dad for Christmas, so my friend and I went back to the dorm, carefully unwrapped the present [that I had waited in line to have hand-wrapped at the BYU Store], ran down the stairs of portal H to the front row, and passed the book with a note in it past the security guard to President Holland. President Holland stood up and waved to me. [He has known my parents for decades.] Then he sat down and wrote the following:

“To Ken and Janet, With best wishes, and thanks for sending Teresa to us, Jeff.”
The book was However Long and Hard the Road.9

Although I didn’t specifically write that I recognized God’s hand in my life that evening, reading what I had written brought back the memory of realizing that Heavenly Father knew me.

Sister Anglesey had left her home and her faith 30 years earlier. She had long known something was missing in her life but felt overwhelmed just to walk back into church. She eventually mustered the courage to attend a temple open house. As beautiful as that visit was, Tammy later confided to me, “All I could see was an experience I would never have. No sealing, and no [endowment].” Still, prompted by that visit, she dressed for church one Sunday, only to park her car and watch others walk into the building. Overcome with anxiety, she simply drove home, changed her clothes, and wept alone. An inspired bishop later sent her a note inviting her back to church. I met Tammy on a ministering visit just after her temple endowment. She had been away from the Church for 30 years! She had spent Sundays sitting alone in a church parking lot. But the Lord brought her home and restored her to His light, love, and joy.

Consider the difference made by a shift in approach. Phil had regularly commanded my dad off the porch when the proposal was "Phil, you need the Church." But when the pitch was "Phillip, the Church needs you" , instantly he said yes.
What if Latter-day Saints began to ask those who aren't committed members of the Church, "could you please help me solve this problem?"  What might happen if you were a Primary teacher, and you called up a friend who is not a member of the Church to ask "I teach a class of 9-year-olds at our church. They're bouncing off the walls when I try to teach them. In two weeks I've got to teach them one of the most important lesson of their lives about the Good Samaritan. You are the best example of a good Samaritan I have ever known. Is there any way you can help me prepare and teach a great lesson on the Good Samaritan to these kids?" You know that your friend will be delighted to help you - and when she does, she will be able to feel the spirit, just like you can feel the spirit. Often, she will then realize that despite her prosperity there has been something missing in her life - and want to learn more.
Here's another example. Several times I had asked a friend, Paul, to come to our home to meet with the missionaries, each time explaining why I felt Paul would find our church to be interesting. Paul declined each invitation. Then a new missionary who needed to learn to teach the missionary lessons came into our ward. Rather than arranging for this elder to practice teaching the lessons to members, I asked Paul if he would let this missionary practice teaching the lessons to him." Sure," Paul responded." I'd be happy to." I urged Paul to be obstreperous, and told the missionaries that Paul had signed up simply to help them become better teachers and had no interest in the church. I went to the first practice session to be sure things went as planned. At the end of the lesson the missionary finished the rehearsal by handing Paul and his wife a copy of the Book of Mormon and asking, "Will you read this book?"  To our great surprise they accepted it and said they would. They did, and were baptized. When my invitation centered on how the church would interest them, Paul wasn't interested. But Paul said "Sure"  when I asked him for help.
God has not restricted to active members of the LDS Church the right to feel the Spirit. Those who are not members of our church, or those that are less active, can feel the same Spirit as we feel, if we just give them the chance to lose their lives for the sake of the gospel. The Yorktown NY Stake concluded, as the result of this observation, that the ward mission plans of each ward in the stake would focus members on inviting people who were not members to join with them in serving in the church. This stake covers some of the wealthiest communities in the world - and the number of people baptized into the church put the stake as the top stake in the mission in baptisms, whereas previously it always had been the lowest.

Thus, the Fourth principle is that God prepares us to face our trials. I want to share with you how I learned and can testify of the goodness of God and the reality of our Savior's great atoning sacrifice on our behalf and how this carried me through a very difficult time in my life. It is really easy to be obedient when things are going well in the calm between the storms that represent the trials in our lives.

I distinctly recall one such moment of calm. It was a beautiful sunny fall afternoon and I was driving past our local golf course on the way to the grocery store. Our last child had recently been born, a daughter after four very active sons. At that moment I felt the love of Heaven so profoundly and felt blessed beyond description. It seemed nothing could go wrong; life was very, very good. As I reflect on that moment today I am grateful for the tender mercy of that moment and the pause it gave me to appreciate the goodness of a loving Heavenly Father. And the strength it gave me to face the approaching storm.

From the very beginning our four sons have given us a run for our money. They were and are as active and adventurous as you can imagine, it is all I have known and I have loved every minute of it. However; active and adventurous, for our family, go hand in hand with emergency rooms and urgent care centers, sometimes including a trip to each on the same day with the same son. A tetanus shot and glue in the afternoon at the urgent care center for laceration and surgery to repair a digital nerve at the emergency room in the evening. It was an interesting moment when the nurse asked when this son had received his last tetanus shot and I responded; four hours ago.

When the urgent care opened in our community I may have been the only one thinking how much it would save us in emergency room costs. During, what we call our ER phase, we kept a running tally on how many days, weeks and finally months we were ER free. Before we stopped keeping track, the longest time between visits was four months. During this time we accumulated countless stitches, staples, broken arms, skull fractures, surgeries, hospitalizations, disease diagnoses, ambulance rides, and life flights.

Going to the ER became so routine that I knew when superglue could be used at home in lieu of stitches. In addition, as it turns out, being on a first name basis with the ER nurses and doctors can be valuable. To this day, my husband and I employ a sophisticated system to determine who "gets" to take the injured child to the emergency room. It is called Rock, Paper, Scissors. Loser goes. I can tell you that I win more than I lose.

Because of these experiences we learned to navigate traumatic situations with our children, listen to the promptings of the spirit, witness miracles through the power of the priesthood, and embrace the life we have with our children.I tell you this because these experiences helped form my foundation for what was to come. On February 15, 2005, around 4:00 in the afternoon I received a phone call from a dear friend. She said to me; Kristie, I hate to be the bearer of bad news; your husband and boys have been in an accident by our home. You need to come right away. I immediately prayed for the safety of my husband Eric, and our sons Jake and Tyson, who were all in the car. At that time Jake was 15, Tyson 12, Cody 9, Kade 7, and our daughter, Katelyn, was 5 months old.

Prior to the phone call, I had taken our youngest son to a friend's house and our daughter was still in her car seat asleep. I put her in the car along with our 9 year-old son and drove the 2 short miles from our home to the scene of the accident.

As you drive south on this country road there is a small hill that blocks your view of the upcoming intersection. As we came over the hill we saw numerous emergency vehicles. I was quickly diverted to the ambulance that had our son, Tyson, in it. He, I was told, was the most critical. As soon as I got in the ambulance, I saw that our good friend, a paramedic, was working on him. I was relieved because of my confidence in his abilities. I knew Tyson needed a priesthood blessing and made arrangements for a family member to meet us at the hospital. I was allowed to ride in the ambulance with Tyson, and dear friends stepped in to care for our younger children. It's interesting what you remember at times like this; I remember being handed things from Tyson's pockets, notes from friends, his watch, and thinking these are such ordinary things for a time like this, but I needed them with me.

When we arrived at the hospital, as you can imagine it was a scene of ordered chaos; I was again relieved to see doctors I knew from previous visits and that I had confidence in working on Eric, Jake, and Tyson. At some point in this chaos they were each given a priesthood blessing. Jake had been unconscious but was awake and concerned about Tyson and Eric. He sustained a broken bone on the top of his foot and a concussion. Eric was concerned about Jake and Tyson, but had significant injures that included three crushed vertebrae, a broken clavicle, a sternum that was cracked in six places, and a hip contusion. The injuries to his chest and back caused him a great deal of pain and impaired his breathing.

Tyson's injuries were critical. He was intubated on arrival at the hospital, and rushed for a CT scan. During the CT scan he coded. Our good friend, the same paramedic, started CPR and was able to get his heart beating again. I was grateful to be able to be by his side while other family members attended to Eric and Jake.

The CT showed that Tyson had sustained a shattered spleen, multiple liver lacerations, and bone fractures. He was immediately taken into surgery. His spleen was removed and his liver was packed in an attempt to stop the bleeding. It was determined he should be life-flighted to Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. A priesthood blessing was administered before Tyson left. Arrangements were made and we were soon in Salt Lake City. Again, he was immediately taken into surgery. During the second surgery he coded multiple times and was resuscitated. I was able to be with him when he was brought into the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Tyson was given a priesthood blessing and had the best medical care that was available; including IV's, blood transfusions, platelets and clotting factors. None of this was able to stop the bleeding. His internal bleeding was so severe that it was impossible for the medical team to replace the blood he was losing.

My husband was not able to accompany me to Salt Lake because his injuries were so significant. It was very difficult for him and for me to be separated. A family member stayed with him during the night and I will be forever grateful that they were there with him when I called to tell him that Tyson had died in the early morning hours; eleven hours and two surgeries after the accident.

I can tell you that this is not what I prayed for. As I was en route to Salt Lake City I remember thinking everything would be alright but I didn't know what side of "alright" I was going to be on. I of course, prayed for Tyson to be healed. I really wanted him to be able to show his friends the super cool scars he would have from the surgeries.

Elder Oaks taught, "We do all that we can for the healing of a loved one, and then we trust in the Lord for the outcome." Our faith must be in the Lord and submit to His will and not what we think the outcome should be.

I do not have the eternal perspective that our Father has; however, I trust him. There is great comfort in the words of Mormon found in Mormon chapter 5 verse 23, "know ye not that ye are in the hands of God?" and Doctrine and Covenants section 42 verse 48 "he that hath faith in me to be healed, and is not appointed unto death, shall be healed". We do not know why Tyson's life on this earth was a short 12 and a half years but if we trust in God, we do not need to know everything.

I was amazed out how quickly friends and family responded when they heard about the accident. In the Kimball Building on the second floor there is a plaque with a quote from President Kimball. It reads, "God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs." I testify that this is true.

God poured out many tender mercies upon me and my family in preparing us for this trial; I had experience with hospitals, doctors, and paramedics. I knew Tyson had received excellent medical care. I was able to talk to Tyson in the ambulance before he lost consciousness, family and friends quickly surrounded us, my younger brother was in medical school at the University of Utah; he along with other family members and friends were with Tyson when he arrived. His medical knowledge was a great comfort to me. Family and friends took care of Eric, Jake, Cody and Kade while I rushed to be with Tyson. Arrangements were made so I could fly to Salt Lake and be with Tyson and arrive shortly after he died.

After Tyson died, kindness was again extended to our family when this same individual arranged for my husband and sons to fly to Salt Lake to be with me and Katelyn. Looking back I am still humbled by the sacrifices family, friends, and others made on our behalf.

At the funeral service of a noble General Authority, H. Verlan Andersen, a tribute was expressed by a son. It has application wherever we are and whatever we are doing. It is the example of personal experience.
The son of Elder Andersen related that years earlier, he had a special school date on a Saturday night. He borrowed from his father the family car. As he obtained the car keys and headed for the door, his father said, “The car will need more gas before tomorrow. Be sure to fill the tank before coming home.”
Elder Andersen’s son then related that the evening activity was wonderful. Friends met, refreshments were served, and all had a good time. In his exuberance, however, he failed to follow his father’s instruction and add fuel to the car’s tank before returning home.
Sunday morning dawned. Elder Andersen discovered the gas gauge showed empty. The son saw his father put the car keys on the table. In the Andersen family the Sabbath day was a day for worship and thanksgiving, and not for purchases.
As the funeral message continued, Elder Andersen’s son declared, “I saw my father put on his coat, bid us good-bye, and walk the long distance to the chapel, that he might attend an early meeting.” Duty called. Truth was not held slave to expedience.
In concluding his funeral message, Elder Andersen’s son said, “No son ever was taught more effectively by his father than I was on that occasion. My father not only knew the truth, but he also lived it.” Live truth.

The Brethren gathered in that meeting listened with anticipation, for a number of vacancies among the General Authorities were to be filled at the approaching conference. The First Presidency called a new member of the Quorum of the Twelve, Elder Boyd K. Packer, and then Joseph heard, to his amazement, his own name. The Lord had called him to serve as an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve. He looked up with surprise and wondered if he had heard correctly. All the Brethren were looking at him—the men whom he had felt it an honor to serve—and realized that he was now to be numbered with them. “Nothing was further from my mind,” he said later.

Many years ago in Cuzco, high in the Andes Mountains of Peru, Elder A. Theodore Tuttle and I held a sacrament meeting in a long, narrow room with a door that opened onto the street. It was night and it was very cold.
While Elder Tuttle spoke, a little boy, perhaps six years old, appeared in the doorway. He was naked except for a ragged shirt that went about to his knees.
On our left was a small table with a plate of bread for the sacrament. This ragged street orphan saw the bread and inched slowly along the wall toward it. He was almost to the table when a woman on the aisle saw him. With a stern toss of her head, she banished him out into the night. I groaned within myself.
Later the boy returned. He crept along the wall, glancing from the bread to me. He was near the point where the woman would see him again. I held out my arms, and he came running to me. I held him on my lap.
Then, as something symbolic, I set him in Elder Tuttle’s chair. After the closing prayer, much to my sorrow, he darted out into the night.
When I returned home, I told President Spencer W. Kimball about him. He was deeply moved and spoke of it in a conference talk. He told others of it and said to me more than once, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.”
I have never forgotten that little street orphan. Many times in South America I have looked for him in the faces of the people. When he comes back into my mind, others come with him.
Over the years, I have wondered what President Kimball meant when he reminded me of that street orphan in Cuzco and repeated, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.” One day he added, “You held a nation on your lap.”
Now in my 78th year, I understand what President Kimball was seeing; I know what he meant. That boy in Cuzco and the one in Japan and the other children about the world profoundly influence what I think and how I feel and what I pray for most earnestly. I constantly think of little children and their parents who struggle to raise them in ever more perilous times.

Thirty years ago a true story unfolded in the most remote part of New Zealand. The windswept Chatham Islands are located in the South Pacific Ocean about 500 miles east of Christchurch. A hardy and resourceful 650 people lived there, isolated in the lonely, harsh environment of those days; and a young, inexperienced, and newly qualified doctor was responsible for their medical care.
An eight-year-old boy, Shane, had sustained a serious head injury 40 miles away on the far side of the island. He was being rushed in across the swamps and along the beaches on the backseat of an old, rusty car to the four-bed cottage hospital. He was unconscious.
The young doctor was unprepared to handle such a case, with little experience and having only the most basic of surgical instruments. Shane was in a critical condition. There was obvious bleeding inside his fractured skull—and blood clotting could fatally compress his brain. The doctor had never even seen a brain operation, but he knew he had to perform the delicate surgery immediately—or watch a little boy die.
There were blood donors to be called in, blood to be cross matched, an anesthetic to be prepared. The antique X-ray machine had broken down, so no helpful X-rays could be taken.
There was the first of many phone calls to Wellington, where a neurosurgeon tried to imagine the scene and guide the nervous young doctor through the process of a very delicate surgical procedure.
Shane’s mother prayed. The doctor prayed; the nurses prayed; the doctor’s wife prayed.
Responsibilities had to be delegated in this busy scene. The policeman administered the anesthetic, a nurse became the surgical assistant, and the work began under an Anglepoise light as darkness fell.
The first surgical incision, nervously performed, did not reveal any bleeding, so other incisions needed to be performed through Shane’s small skull to find the source of the bleeding. More calls to the neurosurgeon for direction and reassurance were made, and his advice was followed in every exact detail. After six hours of anxiety and pressure, the surgery was completed, the hemorrhage of blood into the brain cavity ceased, and a successful outcome was achieved. Serenity replaced chaos. It was around midnight.
The doctor was a young father. He thought about his family and the blessings they enjoyed. He was grateful for the many tender mercies of the Lord in his life and especially for the presence of the Comforter during the last 12 hours. He was grateful for the presence of an unseen expert who imparted of His far-greater knowledge freely in his time of need.
At the critical time in a desperate situation, the Lord provided the guidance and the ability for a young, inexperienced doctor to perform a miracle and preserve the life of a small boy, who was precious before the Lord.
Neil Hutchison was the young doctor who prayed for help and had the faith to rely on the Lord and the neurosurgeon, enabling him to perform a miracle under the most difficult of conditions. He now serves as the bishop in the East Coast Bays Ward in Auckland, New Zealand.
Bishop Hutchison advised me, “I had the privilege of meeting Shane and his father a couple of years ago in Christchurch for the first time since that day in 1976. He is an electrician with his own business and is aware of no defects from his long operation. He is such a nice chap, and I can’t help pondering on how thin the veil is between this life and the next.”

The log cabin was small and homey, a chimney rising from one end and two windows and a door on the front. Around it the fertile fields of Fayette, New York, were turning green. Nearby trees were awakening to spring, shading the fresh, new blossoms struggling to lift their heads to the sun. Parked around the cabin were the horses, buggies, and wagons that had carried the many men and women who were gathered there on that Tuesday morning. It was April 6, 1830, the day chosen by the Lord for the official organization of His church in the last days. (See D&C 20:1–2.)
Inside the main room of the cabin, the Prophet Joseph Smith, only twenty-four years old, asked five of the men present to join him in legally organizing the new church so that the requirements of the law could be met. Then, after all those present had knelt together in solemn prayer, Joseph asked them if they would accept him and Oliver Cowdery as their teachers and leaders. They agreed. Joseph turned to Oliver, laid his hands on his head, and ordained him an elder in the Church. Oliver then ordained Joseph. In a confirming revelation, the Lord called Joseph “a seer, a translator, a prophet, an apostle of Jesus Christ, an elder of the church” (D&C 21:1).
The sacrament was blessed and passed. Others were ordained and confirmed. The gift of the Holy Ghost was given to many, and its presence filled hearts of all. The small cabin overflowed with gladness and hope.
Among those who accepted baptism into the Church that day were Joseph’s parents, Joseph Smith, Sr., and Lucy Mack Smith. The young prophet was so overcome by the joy of the occasion that he went alone into the woods and wept.
The Church of Jesus Christ was again upon the earth. Its members were few and humble, some with little formal education. But that Tuesday they faced the future with great courage, and they were eager to learn the things of God and to serve Him and His church.
Mistakes would be made and some would stumble, but the work would go forward, for the Lord promised them, and us, “I will bless all those who labor in my vineyard with a mighty blessing” (D&C 21:9).

I came across a Personal Progress goal that motivated me to get started on my family tree. Whenever I went to my grandparents’ for lunch, they told me stories from their lives and from those of my other relatives. I began going to the family history center and gathering information about my family.

Through my research, I became even closer to my grandparents, and I came to know my ancestors as if I had lived with them. I found information about my ancestors, shared the glad tidings of eternal sealing, and helped bless many generations.

I continue to discover hidden treasures thanks to FamilySearch.org. I love what President Thomas S. Monson said: “I testify that when we do all we can to accomplish the work that is before us, the Lord will make available to us the sacred key needed to unlock the treasure which we so much seek” (“The Key of Faith,” Ensign, Feb. 1994, 5). Through our efforts, we will discover the keys to our eternal treasure, and one day we will be able to meet our ancestors in person.

First, allow me to share the parable of the green chalkboard.
We might come home one day to a child who says something like “I hate school.” (None of you here would ever say that!) President Eyring explained that after some digging, we might come to realize it’s not school itself the child hates but rather the fear of failure. President Eyring admitted that he had experienced similar feelings after concluding he couldn’t do math.

Luckily, in the Eyring household there was a single decoration in the family room: a green chalkboard.

If that seems strange, let me read a brief passage from an article published on the Nobel Prize’s website about President Eyring’s father, Henry Eyring, a world-class chemist.
The article reads:
[Henry Eyring’s] brilliant theory for the rates of chemical reactions, published in 1935, was apparently not understood by members of the Nobel Committee until much later. As a compensation the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences gave him, in 1977, its highest honor, other than the Nobel Prize, the Berzelius Medal in gold.
In other words, the Nobel Prize’s own website acknowledges that the only reason President Eyring’s father didn’t win a Nobel prize was because his theory was simply not grasped by even the Nobel Committee itself! Not too shabby.
In short, maybe we would all do well to incorporate a green chalkboard into our family room decor.

Well, there at the family chalkboard, father and son toiled together on math problems.
President Eyring reflected:
I didn’t wonder if I could work the math problems; I’d proved to my satisfaction that I couldn’t. . . .
But Dad wasn’t satisfied. He thought I could do it. So we took turns at that chalkboard. I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and helped put under a tree. But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice.

The group pushed on to another of George Washington’s famous camps on the banks of the Delaware River. Instead of tramping through deep snow with cold feet like the Revolutionary soldiers, this modern group welcomed the cool water of the river. Each teen was armed with an inflated tube, and they settled down to float the river.
“Tubing was fun,” said Jan Taylor of the Doylestown Pennsylvania Ward, “because you didn’t have to do anything in particular and you could talk to people. Everyone was together, and we were going so slow there was nothing else to do besides talk.”
The floaters were a little deceived about the speed of the river. They thought that it would be an easy matter to just paddle over to the bank. But when the floaters reached the point where they were supposed to get out, some people found they were caught in the current and being swept down river. They were in no real danger, but they were passing by the easiest places to get up the bank.
At this point, Tim Bothell, 19, a chaperon from the Smerna Branch of the Wilmington Delaware Stake, went to the rescue. He swam out into the current and caught errant floaters who were not strong enough to get themselves out of the river. Again and again he reached out and helped someone get into the shallow water where they could wade out.
Another group of boys brought up the rear in the river to keep an eye out for trouble. They made sure that everyone had made it down safely. Both Tim and the rear guard did these things without being asked. They were watching out for each other. They were helping each other have a good time. For these three days, strangers were closing the distance and becoming friends.

Some years ago, my wife, Harriet, and I had a memorable experience in which we saw this promise fulfilled. We were in West Africa, a beautiful part of the world where the Church is growing and the Latter-day Saints are delightful. However, West Africa also has many challenges. In particular, I was sorrowed by the poverty that I saw. In the cities there is high unemployment, and families often struggle to provide for their daily needs and for their safety. It broke my heart to know that many of our precious members of the Church live in such deprivation. But I also learned that these fine members help each other to lighten their heavy burdens.
We eventually arrived at one of our meetinghouses near a large city. But instead of finding a people burdened and absorbed by darkness, we discovered a joyful people who were radiating with light! The happiness they felt for the gospel was contagious and lifted our spirits. The love they expressed for us was humbling. Their smiles were genuine and infectious.
I remember wondering at the time if there could possibly be a happier people on the face of the planet. Even though these dear Saints were surrounded by difficulties and trials, they were filled with light!
The meeting began, and I started to speak. But soon the power went out in the building, and we were left in complete darkness.
For a while I could hardly see anyone in the congregation, but I could see and feel the brilliant and beautiful smiles of our Saints. Oh, how I loved being with these wonderful people!
The darkness in the chapel continued, and so I sat next to my wife and waited for the power to be restored. As we waited, something remarkable happened.
A few voices began singing one of the hymns of the Restoration. And then others joined in. And then more. Soon, a sweet and overwhelming chorus of voices filled the chapel.
These members of the Church did not need hymnbooks; they knew every word of every hymn they sang. And they sang one song after another with an energy and spirit that touched my soul.
Eventually, the lights sparked back on and bathed the room with light. Harriet and I looked at each other, our cheeks wet with tears.
In the midst of great darkness, these beautiful, wonderful Saints had filled this Church building and our souls with light.
It was a profoundly moving moment for us—one Harriet and I will never forget.

Brigham Young’s natural ability pushed him to the forefront. He was chosen one of the Camp’s captains. Frequently he preached. At times he was delegated to procure provisions. Always he closely observed Joseph Smith’s leadership and acquired experience. However, not all of the men yielded to Joseph’s leadership without murmuring. The difficulty of the march made weak-spirited men complain. “We had to be troubled with uneasy, unruly and discontented spirits,” Brigham Young recollected. “This was the first time we had ever travelled in the capacity of a large company … Brother Joseph led, counselled and guided the company, and contended against those unruly, evil disposed persons.” (Journal of Discourses 10:20.)

Let me begin with a difficult personal example that has caused me to contemplate the great blessing and privilege of communication.

Our 2 ½-year-old grandson, Jack, was just diagnosed with a rare genetic deletion. It is called Phelan/McDermid syndrome. Although his case is shown to be on the mild end of the spectrum, he nevertheless, is missing the speech gene on the 22nd chromosome. He is the sweetest, most social little guy, but it is becoming increasingly frustrating to both him and his parents that he cannot talk. He tries so hard to show what he wants or needs, and his parents (and I when I am with him) try to read his eyes, watch all of his body language, and listen to guidance from the Holy Ghost to understand what he is trying to tell us.

From Jack I am learning anew what a privilege it is simply to be able to communicate! When one either cannot or does not communicate, anger, resentment, misunderstanding, and frustration abound. We are looking for miracle workers and angels like Helen Keller’s teacher Ann Sullivan, who will help unlock this door of silence for our little Jack. We are learning how crucial talking is to understanding, guiding, and loving one another. May you and I who enjoy the privilege of communication use and develop our communication skills to understand and to bless others.

Most people find that serving in the Church’s youth programme is rewarding, uplifting, exciting and full of surprises. One family’s surprise came when they realised that six of them were serving in the Young Women’s organisation at the same time.
Carole Fullwood (nee Sayers) was thrilled to be called as Exeter Ward’s Young Women president. At the same time, one of her daughters, Kimberley Fullwood, was serving as the Plymouth Stake’s Young Women president.
Carole says, “Imagine my delight when my eldest daughter, Holly Fullwood-Chalkley, also announced that she had been called as Chorley 1st Ward’s Young Women president, meaning we could share ideas and experiences.”
Debbie continues, “Carole and I were talking about our Church responsibilities. She told me of hers and her daughter’s callings. I was amazed as my daughter, Esther Wall, is Liverpool Stake’s Young Women president, while I am currently serving as a Young Women counsellor to Ruth Fullwood, also my daughter, who is the president of Young Women in Southport Ward!”
Carole finishes, “‘When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God (Mosiah 2:17).’ It’s exciting to see our children accepting opportunities to serve and realising they have the same enthusiasm as we do for our callings. The greatest reward is the happiness felt when we serve.”

My name is Ginger Lyn and I’ve always loved Christmas, but last year was the best one we’ve ever had.
It all started on our Thanksgiving Day the last Thursday in November, as our family knelt in prayer to give thanks for our blessings. We were all so happy that we talked about some of the things we could do to help others have that same happy feeling.
Together we came up with many ideas, but the best one of all was our plan for Christmas Day. What we like most is our large family, and the happiness the gospel brings to us. We decided to share both these blessings as our gift to others.
The Salt Lake Temple is only a short drive from our home, and going there was part of our plan. We decided that on Christmas Day, after opening our gifts and eating breakfast, we would clean up the house, fix a big dinner, and then go to the temple grounds and find someone to spend Christmas with us. Before going down to the Visitors Center on Temple Square to find our unknown guests, we would set the table with candles and our best silver and crystal, lay a fire in the fireplace all ready to light, and turn on the Christmas tree lights.
We pasted a picture of our family inside the cover of some copies of the Book of Mormon, wrote a message under each picture, and signed our names. These books were to be given to our dinner guests as we sat around the fire and talked in the evening.
We were excited about our plan, and we knew the Lord would help us. In all our family prayers from Thanksgiving until Christmas, we asked Him to prepare for us someone in need of our love who would be ready to hear the gospel.
Christmas Day finally came and we were all excited. It took us a lot longer to cook the dinner and clean the house than we thought it would. Because of this we arrived at the Visitors Center later than we had planned. We were afraid everyone would have eaten by then and we wouldn’t find anyone to share Christmas dinner with us.
We talked with a number of people and invited several of them to our home. Some said they had already eaten and others looked a little puzzled and said, “No, thank you.” But we just kept asking because we knew that our Heavenly Father had prepared somebody for us. And sure enough, He had!
We found a father and mother from Michigan and their seventeen-year-old son. They were surprised at our invitation, but said they were very hungry and were just going to look in the phone book to find a place to eat. The father and mother had been to the Visitors Center before on another vacation, and on this visit they wanted their son to learn a little bit about the Latter-day Saint people. The father said, “There isn’t a better way for us to learn about your church and lifestyle than to go right into one of your homes. We’d be delighted to come!”
We also invited two young women who were on vacation from Australia to our home. They seemed excited too. They said they hadn’t eaten dinner and would enjoy being with a family at Christmastime.
We had a wonderful time on that Christmas night, eating and talking and answering questions about the Church. Before we said good-bye to our guests they thanked us over and over again. The Michigan family said they would always remember their Christmas dinner with us as a highlight of their trip, and before they left they took a picture of us around the Christmas tree.
The girls from Australia were a little teary as we gave them each a copy of the Book of Mormon with our picture inside the cover.
After the visitors had left, our family gathered in the kitchen to do the dishes. We agreed that the real spirit of Christmas had touched each one of us and that it had been the best Christmas ever. We learned, too, that we don’t have to wait for Christmas to have a Christ-like feeling—all we have to do is share the gospel with others and it can be Christmas every day of the year!

George Peeples is my best friend. For 17 years, we’ve lived across the street and one house over from each other. We were born in the same month of the same year in the same hospital. When our moms went to Relief Society, George and I shared the same playpen. When George started kindergarten, I was his first seat partner. We got the chicken pox at the same time, and we both had a crush on Linda Helmers in the sixth grade.
We’re a pair, a team, bookends. And we plan to keep it that way. If everything works out, we’ll go on our missions at the same time, come back at the same time, find twin sisters to marry, and go into business together. We’re like brothers, maybe even closer. There’s not a person on the face of the earth that I know better than George.
That’s why I was more than a little surprised when George pulled me aside on Sunday after our priests quorum lesson was finished. What he said to me was totally unexpected. Brother Roberts had given a good lesson about living up to our potential and making the most of our lives by developing our talents and abilities. I could tell that it had made an impression on George.
“Casey,” he said, motioning for me to come closer. “We’ve got to talk.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “I think I’m inspired,” he said.
“To do what?”
“The lesson today. Doing something for yourself and something for others at the same time. I’m getting this feeling, Case. A big feeling. I want to make a difference. I know it’s crazy, but …”
“But what?”
“Case, I’m going to run for student-body president.”
My mouth must have dropped open about six inches. George is a great guy, but a student-body president? That was hard to imagine.
“You don’t have to say it,” George beamed. “You’re surprised. Right?”
“I am surprised, George.”
“Here’s another surprise for you. I want you to be my campaign manager.”
I didn’t know what to say. Here was my best friend asking me to sign on as first mate of the Titanic. George was well liked, but not what I’d call popular. Maybe if he were all-universe in a glory sport, like basketball or football. George was a wrestler, and not a very good one at that. The only office he’d held in school was Science Club treasurer. This was not a man who brought Thomas Jefferson to mind. George didn’t have a chance.
My ten-year-old brother Matt came scooting down the hallway. “Dad says you need to get to the car right now,” he blurted out. I don’t know when I was happier to be pestered by my brother. “Gotta fly, George. I’ll call you later.” With that, I quickly headed toward the car. Very quickly.
“Can you believe it? George wanting to run for student-body president?”
I giggled. I was at home with my family at the dinner table, chewing pot roast and talking over the events at church. “Student-body president. Isn’t that a scream?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s so funny,” my dad mused. “He has a lot of ability. George is a friend to everyone. He brings out the best in others, a rare trait these days.”
Mom picked up the theme in a hurry. “You shouldn’t talk about George that way, Casey. You should encourage him to run, not poke fun at him behind his back.”
My pot roast suddenly tasted a little dry. “Uh, I am supporting him. He asked me to be his campaign manager,” I mumbled.
“Good for George. Just like him to place so much faith in you, son,” Dad approved. “You know what I like about George? He’s a good people person.”
“That’s Peeples,” Matt chimed in. “He’s a Peeples person.”
“Hey, how about that? Vote for George. The Peeples Choice,” my mother said triumphantly. “Is that a terrific campaign slogan or what?”
“The Peeples Choice. Cute, Mom.” I smiled weakly. As soon as the dishes were cleared, I was on the phone with George.
“You don’t even have to say it. You’re accepting the campaign manager’s position,” he chattered. “I knew I could count on you. See what you can find out tomorrow at Mr. Carello’s office. For a principal, he knows a lot about what’s going on. Then we’ll plot strategy after school over here.”
“Right, George. Strategy. It’s going to take a lot of that to pull this off.”
About four the next afternoon, I knocked on George’s door. His little brother, Ralphie, answered. Ralphie is seven years old and the unquestioned budding neighborhood genius. He was reading at three, wrote his first simple computer program at five, and his first complex program a year later. He’s got a round little face, like George’s, a bowl haircut, and oval tortoise shell glasses. “Hi Ralphie! Discovered any new subatomic particles this week?”
“Well, no Casey, but I do have a new ant farm. It’s fascinating. Do you want to see it?”
“Some other time, Ralphie. Big doings here today,” I said, walking to the family room where George was studying a city map.
“Casey! What did you find out?”
“Good news and bad news. First the good. Mr. Carello said he knew of only two people running for student-body president.”
“Only two? Me and who else?”
“That’s the bad news, George. The other candidate is Eric Torrington.”
George looked as though he’d swallowed a snail. “Uhhh,” he groaned. “The Eric Torrington? All-state quarterback? Honor roll student? The one who never has a hair out of place?”
Before I could answer, I heard a voice from the couch across the room. “Eric Torrington. Ohhhh. He’s so gorgeous.”
It was George’s ninth-grade sister, Libby. The mere mention of Eric Torrington caused her heart to skip a beat.
“Yes,” I sighed. “That Eric Torrington.”
“It felt so right yesterday, but maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” George worried.
“We can’t let the competition scare us off,” I reassured. “Look, if you were Eric, would you take George Peeples’s campaign seriously?”
“No. I really wouldn’t.”
“Neither will Eric. That gives us the element of surprise. And I know we can outwork him.” I was startled by how confident I was sounding. I suppose that people boarding the Titanic had smiles on their faces. “I’ve already got a great campaign slogan. ‘The Peeples Choice.’ There are a lot more people at school who never will be a star athlete. They’ll identify with you, not Eric.”
George was looking less discouraged. “The Peeples Choice. That’s good.”
“The credit for it really belongs to my mom.”
“And the surprise stuff. I do have a few ideas up my sleeve. Like tracting. You know, like the missionaries do,” George explained. “I got a list of addresses from the computer today. Every student at Westmont High is right here. I’ve already started to plot their homes on this map. We can try to visit as many as we can at their own house before election day. The personal touch. What do you think?”
“It’s worth trying.”
“Then we’re in this thing to the end?”
“Together all the way.”
“And not even Linda Helmers will come between us?”
“No way. And she moved to Montana four years ago anyway.”
George laughed. “Eric Torrington is about to be thrown for a loss.”
We stood at the corner of 19th and Oak Street, looking at a long list of addresses attached to a clipboard. “Mark Crane,” George said firmly. “Second house on the right.” We marched to the door and George knocked vigorously. A young man opened the door.
“Mark Crane?”
“Yes, I’m Mark.”
“Mark, I’m George Peeples, and I’ll be a senior next year at Westmont High. I’m running for student-body president and—”
Mark’s face brightened. “So you’re the guy. I heard someone was running against Eric Torrington, but I couldn’t remember who. What did you say your name is?”
“George. George Peeples.”
“That Eric is awesome,” Mark said admiringly. “Do you remember the game against Central a year ago? We were down by six points with two minutes left.”
“Hey, do I remember that game!” George enthused. “Of course. Eric was running to his left with a linebacker and a nose tackle hanging on his back. Then he sets up and throws the ball about 60 yards against the grain …”
“And our guy is wide open, makes the catch, and dances into the end zone. We kick the extra point and the game is history,” Mark rhapsodized. “Awesome.”
“Yeah, awesome,” George gushed. “That pass was a tight spiral, no wobble at all.”
“Sixty yards easy,” gloated Mark. Mark blinked at George. “So what did you say brought you here?”
“Oh. Right. Well, I’m running for student-body president against Eric, and gosh, if you don’t vote for him, then how about voting for me?”
Mark gave George an odd glance. “Yeah. Sure. So how will we do in football next year?” They talked about football for a couple more minutes, then parted amiably. George and I turned back toward the street.
“You don’t need to say it, Casey. I’ve got to be more assertive. Mark pretty much had me talked into voting for Eric.” He looked at me. “Tell me it will get better.”
“One door, one new friend. That’s not bad. It will get better,” I told him.
Looking back, it did get better. We never knew what to expect when we knocked on those doors. We talked with tall kids, short kids, skinny kids, not-so-skinny kids, people with blond hair, people with brown hair, and in a couple of cases, people with orange hair. Some simply told us they would vote for Eric. Some showed no interest in voting at all. And a few, I think, really took seriously what George had to say. Tracy McNeil was one of those people.
We’d been working a neighborhood for a couple of hours, greeted mostly by blank looks. We were worn down. George’s shoulders slumped. We approached a large, two-story house with green shutters. I rapped on the door, and a girl our age answered.
“Hello, I’m George Peeples and I’m running for student-body president.”
She smiled. “Oh yes. Some of my friends told me you’d been to their houses.” She was just a few inches over five feet tall and as thin as a drinking straw. She had long, light brown hair. “I’m Tracy McNeil,” she said.
“This is my friend and campaign manager, Casey Baxter,” George introduced me.
“Why are you doing this, George?” Tracy asked.
“You mean going to houses and asking people to vote for me?” She nodded. “On a day like today, I wonder myself. A lot of people don’t care, it seems.
“And you do?” Her question was polite, but with a point.
“Yes, I do. I want to make a difference,” George said earnestly. “I have some good ideas, like the scholarship committee. The way I see it, with a little work and relying on some expertise in the community, we could double the number of scholarships received by Westmont students. I want to see if my ideas will work. If I don’t run, I’ll never know what effect I could have had. Right, Casey?”
“Right, George.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something but were afraid to try?”
Tracy blushed. “Cheerleader,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to dance around with pompoms and yell silly rhymes in front of large audiences. It’s dumb, I know.”
“It’s not dumb. Why haven’t you tried out?” George asked.
“You have to be pretty and popular. I’m neither,” Tracy answered.
“I think you’re pretty,” George blurted out. “And if a little guy like me can run for student-body president against an all-state quarterback, then you can try out for cheerleader.”
A light clicked on in my head. “I remember your picture in the yearbook. You’re on the gymnastics team. You could do those cheerleader routines in your sleep.”
“Well …” Tracy wavered.
“You try out,” George demanded.
“Maybe,” hedged Tracy.
“Will you at least vote for me?” George wondered. “I have other good ideas, too.
“Eric doesn’t have any ideas. You have my vote. You earned it,” laughed Tracy.
When we left the doorstep, George’s mood was definitely on the upswing. “Tracy McNeil. A great human being. Intelligent. Attractive. And supremely insightful,” he rambled. “Case, by some chance do you think she has a twin sister?”
Still, George and I worried. You couldn’t walk down a hallway at school without seeing Eric’s football-shaped campaign tags. “Be a Winner. Join the Torrington Team,” they urged. We needed help. Even with the assistance of George’s parents and the dubious efforts of Libby, we couldn’t keep up.
I was at home one evening, halfheartedly trying to write a paper for English class when Brother Roberts called. He’s an architect, only a couple of years out of school. Our priests would do almost anything for him.
“How’s the campaign going, Casey? When I ask George, he only assures me that all is well. My instincts tell me otherwise.”
“It could be better,” I admitted. “Eric Torrington has a lot of support. Except for the wrestlers, he’s got every athlete’s vote in the school. Then there’s the hunk factor. Eric is one; George isn’t. George may not even carry his own family. Yesterday at school I saw Libby with a Torrington tag. Can you believe it? Like half the other freshman girls, she’s probably convinced herself that Eric is a secret admirer and is getting ready to ask her to the prom or something.”
“Not a good sign when you can’t count on your own sister’s vote,” Brother Roberts sympathized. “When are you and George going to meet again?”
“Tomorrow, about seven at his house.”
“Let me see what I can do to help.”
I was a few minutes late getting to George’s house the next night. Ralphie answered the door.
“Hey, Ralphie, been reading up on superconductivity lately?”
“Why yes, I have—an unbelievable force. George is in there. I was just going over his trigonometry with him.”
George sat in the family room, staring toward a shelf where Ralphie’s ant farm was located. “Oh hi,” he said wearily when I came into the room. He turned again to look at the ant farm. “You don’t suppose we’re any different from those ants?”
“Say what?”
“The ants and us. They wander around their little world, just like we do. They work hard, just like we do. And they won’t be elected student-body president, just like us.”
“George, you’ve been campaigning too hard. This is fairly obvious, but you are not an ant.”
The doorbell rang. We heard a commotion at the front door. Then Brother Roberts strode in carrying a dozen pieces of cardboard. Behind him streamed in our priests and the entire Laurel class.
“George, Casey,” Brother Roberts explained hastily. “This is your instant campaign committee. I’ve got a pretty good hand in art and everyone here has been cutting paper and pasting since their kindergarten days. These materials are scraps from work. We’re here to help you.”
George started to sputter something. One of the priests, Brett Young, held up his hand. “George, you’ve proved your friendship to us many times. Just think of it as returning the favor. Now stand back and let us get started.”
George sat down, looking slightly lost. In three minutes, a little factory was set up with a dozen kids bouncing around like popcorn in a popper. George watched, almost in a daze.
“Still feeling like an ant?” I shouted across the room.
“Not at all. I’m feeling like, well, the Peeples Choice!”
Three hours later, the Peeples campaign was in possession of four beautiful banners, a dozen posters, and 200 campaign tags.
The priests and Laurels also left behind one important intangible—a big dose of enthusiasm. “The confidence is back,” I told George. “Let’s go knock on some doors.”
“We’ll help,” Brett volunteered. “You won’t make it to every student’s house by next week. We can split into twos and cover the ground you won’t get to.”
Looking back, that night was the turning point. At school the next day, you couldn’t look anywhere without seeing “The Peeples Choice” hanging from a wall or ceiling, or proclaimed on a tag on someone’s clothing. We were gaining momentum. “It looks like you and Casey are giving Eric a run for his money,” Mr. Carello told us in a hallway. I saw Eric a few times that week. Underneath his cool, poised exterior, I detected a trace of anxiousness. As an athlete, he knew what could happen when the opposition mounted a fourth-quarter charge.
Suddenly, it seemed, the day before elections arrived. We had our last meeting. “We’ll finish the door-to-door work this afternoon,” reported Brett. “We’ll be close to visiting 90 percent of all Westmont students by the time you sit down for supper.”
“Great work,” George acknowledged happily.
“What about your campaign speech?” I asked George. Before the elections, an assembly was held and all the candidates addressed the student body. “Do you need help with it?”
“I don’t think so. I talked it over with Dad, and he said the best speeches are those that come from the heart. I’ll work on it tonight.”
“You’d better,” Brett advised, “because the assembly is the first thing tomorrow.”
“Nobody knows that better than I do,” George replied.
I lost track of George that afternoon. It was just as well. The campaign had taken a toll on my homework. So when my last class was over, I did the heroic thing and trudged to the library. I studied until about 6:00 P.M. and then made my way down the quiet hallways.
I passed by the gymnasium. A door was open. Inside, a girl was practicing a cheerleading routine, ending with some very polished handsprings. I watched until Tracy McNeil finished only a few feet away from me. She looked up, startled to see someone watching her. “Caught in the act,” she said, her face flushed from the workout. “Tryouts are in two weeks. I need a little work.” She frowned, feigning anger. “You know this is all George’s fault. He gave me that little boost. And whether I make the cheerleading squad or not, I’m glad that I’m trying. Better to know than always wonder,” she said, letting out a breath of air that ruffled her bangs.
“George does seem to bring out the best in people,” I said. “Need a campaign manager? I’ve put together quite a machine for George.”
“A campaign manager for cheerleader?” She laughed. “No, I don’t think so. But if I change my mind, you’ll get a call.” Tracy was done practicing. Since it was getting dark, and since I knew George would approve because he’s also a gentleman, I walked Tracy to her house. “Good luck tomorrow,” she wished before disappearing behind her front door.
I arrived home 20 minutes later, convinced that I never was that crazy about Linda Helmers in the sixth grade anyway.
Excitement rippled up and down the hallways at school the following morning. Everyone was talking about the elections. You couldn’t turn anywhere without seeing a horde of students wearing Touchdown Torrington or Peeples Choice tags.
In the school auditorium, the first row was reserved for all the candidates. I took a seat right behind George. He looked sharper than I’ve ever seen him. He wore a new, gray, pin-striped suit with a red necktie.
“This is it,” I said, settling in behind him. “Got your speech?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m going on instincts. I’ll know what to say when I get up there.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Trust me. Whatever I say will be right from the heart. I hope.”
The assembly started. Mr. Carello announced the candidates for president and said that Eric would lead off. Eric strode confidently to the podium, amid some encouraging shouts from around the room. He had on a white linen sport jacket, beige slacks, and a light blue shirt. He looked, well, like Eric. Cool. Sophisticated. Very in.
“I’m a natural leader,” he began. “I’ve proved it on the field, and now I’m ready to prove it off the field. When it’s fourth and inches and the game is on the line, you want someone who can take charge. I’ve been there. And hey, I took charge.”
He went on, playing the football theme to the hilt. Some of his pals in the audience let out an occasional whoop or whistle. “So you want to be a winner? Vote Torrington. Join the Torrington team. And together, we’ll be invincible,” he concluded. Right on cue, a bunch of his friends immediately jumped up and started clapping.
“Some campaign manager you’ve got,” I groaned to George. “I didn’t even think ahead to plant some people in the audience to give you a standing ovation.”
“No problem,” George said serenely, standing. He walked to the podium slowly. He stood there for several seconds, saying nothing. My stomach did some Tracy McNeil-like backflips. There were some nervous coughs. Finally, George began to speak.
“Over the last few weeks, I’ve visited many of you in your homes. Based on those visits, I’ve concluded one thing: You are winners now, and you don’t need to prove it by voting for one candidate or another …”
Cheering simultaneously broke out all over the auditorium. George smiled and waited for the noise to die down. “I know what it’s like to come to school and wonder if you’re important. To me, all of you are. We can make this school a place where we look forward to coming each day, to learn, and to see friends. I’m running for student-body president because, together—” George paused and nodded slightly “—we can make a difference.”
George elaborated on his plans—to expand the student store, to form the scholarship committee, and his idea for an intramural sports league where desire, not ability, was the only qualification for participation. You could have heard a cricket chirp as he spoke—it was that quiet. It was clear to anyone who was half-awake that George’s ideas and plans far surpassed Eric’s efforts. Then George finished. “Just do this. Think about the two candidates. Then vote for the one you think will truly best serve you.”
Applause erupted. I noticed someone standing behind me and to the left. It was Mark Crane, the very first person George and I talked with. Brett was on his feet, quickly joined by other friends from church. It was contagious. Tracy stood, and most shocking of all, Libby and some of her pals began clapping and shouting. From the back of the long, large room thundered the most thrilling sound of all. A chant, growing stronger. “Peeples … Peeples … PEEPLES! … PEEPLES!!!” Shivers shot up my spine as George walked back to the front row.
“Can you believe it?” I shouted to George, who grinned and turned to face the student body, his hands held high over his head.
For the first time, I believed that George might actually win.
George would have been a great student-body president, maybe the best ever at our school. If only he had the chance. Close doesn’t count in elections; neither does who is most deserving. Mr. Carello’s face told it all as he came out of his office to announce the results after school. He looked slightly disappointed, a fact not lost on George.
“He doesn’t even have to say it,” George whispered glumly. “Eric won.”
Mr. Carello cleared his throat. “For student-body president, Eric Torrington, 353 votes, George Peeples, 344. Congratulations, Eric. A burst of backpounding broke out in Eric’s corner of the room. George walked over, smiling to hide his hurting.
“Thanks, George,” Eric said, shaking George’s hand. “You gave me a big scare. Another day or two, you would have won. You’re a class act, Peeples.”
Mr. Carello pulled George aside. “You gave it a good try. I do plan to follow up on some of your ideas. We’ll need a student leader on the scholarship committee. I hope that you’ll consider the position.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carello.”
Friends consoled George. We left after ten minutes or so, starting the long walk home. Rain began to fall.
“You did great, George. Nobody gave you a chance, but you almost pulled it off. And look at the good things that came out of it. You made some friends. Tracy will be a cheerleader, no doubt. You gave people confidence. And that was the best priest and Laurel activity we’ve had in a while.”
“I suppose you’re right, Casey, but it’s hard not to be disappointed,” he said.
Normally I can fight off noble urges pretty well, but I was getting desperate to cheer up my friend. “I think Tracy would like you to ask her out.”
It didn’t even phase him. “That’s nice,” George mumbled.
We were quite a pair, walking in the rain, our heads down. After what seemed like an hour, we reached our street. “Look George, you should be proud. You weren’t elected, but you’re still a winner.”
He nodded a little. “Thanks for your help. You were a great campaign manager. Right now, though, I need to go somewhere quiet and think through some things. I’ll be fine, but it may be a few days before I smile again.”
He turned to his house, a forlorn figure on a gray evening. I went to my room, stretched across my bed, and spent a few reflective seconds thinking of the day’s events.
My peace was short-lived. It was shattered by an explosion coming from the Peeples’s house. I bounded off the bed and dashed down the stairs to the street. I saw Libby bolting from the house, looking disgusted. “You’ve done it this time, Ralphie! For a kid so smart, how could you do something so dumb! Dad’s going to ground you until your mission!”
Ralphie tore out of the house right behind his sister. I grabbed Libby’s arm. “What in the world is going on?”
“It’s Ralphie, the boy genius,” she hissed. “Mom’s picking up Dad at the airport. Ralphie’s been told a million times not to use his chemistry set when they’re gone. But he got into it and there was a horrible bang. I mean cups and plates fell out of the cupboards, and books off their shelves. And his ant farm. It fell and cracked, and now there’s about 50,000 ants running everywhere. Ralphie’s never going to get out of this one!”
I rushed by the panic-stricken Ralphie into the house. I turned to the kitchen. The sight was unforgettable—George, wet hair plastered on his forehead, in his soggy suit, down on the floor with the sugar bowl in his hands, sprinkling white granules and urging, “Here ants! Come and get the sugar! Ummm, good!” He looked up at me and hurriedly explained, “Got to capture these ants before my parents get home. Ralphie’s entire future is at stake. Just don’t stand there, help me!”
I started to chuckle, and then George, realizing how it must have all looked, began giggling. He sat back in a mess of sugar, a couple of ants clambering up his red tie. We laughed until we both had headaches.
“George, I don’t even need to say it.”
“Go ahead anyway, Casey.”
“You are someone who makes a difference. And always will.”
With that, I grabbed some sugar in my hand and started calling ants in the very best way that I could.

As a boy I sought happiness as the world measures it. I wanted acceptance, position, fame (particularly as an athlete), and wealth. I had none of these. I was very unhappy. I thought happiness was as elusive as a shadow.
It was not until I was called on a mission that I discovered the real key to happiness. To my surprise, despite the discouragement, the disappointments, and the plain hard work associated with my missionary labors, I was happy. It was then I learned that happiness is really a by-product of service. As I forgot my own desires, my own weaknesses and frailties in my missionary service, I began to understand King Benjamin’s profound counsel to his people. “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” (Mosiah 2:17.)
That is why a missionary can return from the toughest experiences of his life and report, “These have been the happiest two years of my life!”