Gospel Story Finder

“The time is 6:30 A.M. The time is 6:30 A.M. The time is 6:30 A.M.”
Keith Kellman’s head emerged from under his pillow and trained a baleful eye on his talking alarm clock, which seemed to be taking special delight in waking him this Sunday morning. As his hand hit the “stop” button, he considered putting his head back under his pillow.
After all, the house heat was still off and it was cold out there. It wasn’t as if his parents would care if he got up or not; he was the sole churchgoer of the family. And he was tired. Early-morning seminary every weekday, and now priesthood meeting at 8:00 A.M. But then Keith sadly realized that all this thinking and debating had gotten his brain waves going, and he probably wouldn’t fall back to sleep anyway.
It wasn’t until he was showered, dressed, and halfway out the door that he remembered that today was the Sunday he had promised to give the bishop his answer.
He began to dig his car out of the snow, shivering and muttering to himself. Even before the Great Wednesday Humiliation, he had his doubts about going on a mission. But what had happened on Wednesday had really clinched it. But how do I tell the bishop? he wondered as his foot came down on the accelerator. The noise from his broken muffler shattered the morning silence.
“Cut your headlights. That must be him. Yep, ’80 rust bucket with an exhaust system loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Okay, he’s far enough ahead of us now. Pull out and follow him,” she said.
Keith was grateful his car made it to the church without the muffler falling off. He was also grateful he found a place to meditate before the meeting. He even began thinking the bishop might forget to call him into his office today.
Yeah, sure.
“Okay, so we followed him to this church and watched him go in. Now what? We know he hauls himself out of bed at an insane hour every morning to go to this church. You’ve seen what you wanted. Let’s go.”
“No. I want to wait a while and see if anybody else shows up. Then I’m going in to see what’s inside.”
“You’re going in? He’ll recognize you and know something’s up.”
“Don’t worry, baby brother. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m wearing my black wig today. I always wear my blonde wig to school. Anyway, I don’t exactly have the kind of face that will turn any heads. He’ll never know.”
“This is so stupid. If you’re that interested in this guy and his church, why don’t you just ask him what you want to know?”
“Listen. Anyone can mouth scriptures and high-sounding ideas. But does he really believe what he said last Wednesday. I want to know what this guy and everybody else inside are like when they don’t have an audience.”
“Following church, Keith went for his bishop’s interview. As he sat across from the bishop, Keith shifted nervously in his chair and then cleared his throat. “It isn’t that I don’t want to go on a mission.”
“Great, Keith. I’m glad you want to go.”
“Please, Bishop. I hate it when you do that. Look, it’s just that I really don’t think I’d make a good missionary. Face it. I weigh 120 pounds and I wear these stupid glasses. Nobody takes me seriously. I get so nervous when I have to speak in front of more than two people that I ooze sweat until my face turns red. Nobody’s going to listen to me; they’ll just laugh and slam the door in my face.”
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little, Keith?
“Every time I try to be a good example, I become a laughingstock. Like last Wednesday at school. I was just going to lunch when this guy, Greg Filtch, stops me and pulls me into the lunchroom office. He said that he heard I was a Mormon and that he was interested in hearing a little about the Church.” Keith took a deep breath and went on. “ I knew Greg liked practical jokes, but this time I thought he might be sincere. So I told him about the Book of Mormon and how the Church had changed my life.
“Sounds promising. What happened?” the bishop asked.
“It was a setup. He had the PA system microphone under his jacket. He was broadcasting my testimony to the entire school. When I came out of the office, everyone in the lunchroom was in hysterics. Now I’m known as Mr. Televangelist. Everyone’s always going, ‘Hey, Preacher’ and ‘Hallelujah! Got any more good sermons today?’ My one try at missionary work and I disgrace the Church.”
“You can’t disgrace the Church by doing the right thing. I hear you substituted for the Gospel Essentials teacher this morning.”
Keith shrugged. “Another disaster. I was supposed to be giving a lesson on the importance of baptism, but halfway through the class this black-haired, skinny girl comes in and sits on the back row. All of a sudden the lesson plan goes completely out of my head and I start talking about the plan of salvation. About a half hour of this andshe excuses herself and cuts out of class.”
The bishop raised his eyebrows. “Sometimes that happens to me too. I feel impressed to teach certain principles at certain times.”
But Keith didn’t hear the bishop. “I drove away the only investigator that’s come to that class in a month.”
“Well, how’d it go? You look like you’re hyperventilating and your eyes are red. Should I call the doctor?”
“No, just give me a few minutes. I’ve decided I’m going to need your help tomorrow, though.”
“Hey, it’s the lunch-time preacher man! Here’s a little something for the collection plate.” Keith ducked as pennies from the Monday morning school crowd showered him. As he continued walking, Keith suddenly found himself staring up at all 225 pounds of Mike “The Wall” Wade, starting left tackle on the football team.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Righteousness, the man who knows the truth about everything,” Mike said. “I hear you think you’re Mr. Informed, Kellman. Mr. I Know The Truth.”
“I never, uh, said … ” Keith began to sputter.
“Here’s the deal, Mr. Religious. Why don’t you just admit to me and all these good folks that you may have been wrong about all this church stuff?”
Keith’s eyes focused directly into Mike’s. For some reason, Mike’s expression reflected more curiosity than fierceness—more like he wanted to know something. Keith relaxed a little and said, “What are you going to do, Wall, bash everybody who doesn’t agree with you? What I said last week stands. I told the truth. You might as well learn to live with it.” Mike looked at him, seemed to think about what Keith had said, then walked off.
“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done for you, Sharon. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I’m satisfied, Mike.”
“I have to admit, though. That Kellman kid was beginning to get to me too. No more games, okay?”
“Okay. It’s time to hang up the ol’ cloak and dagger. Hand me the phone book, will you?”
“I got here as soon as I could, Bishop,” said Keith, meeting the bishop in front of his office. The bishop opened the door but didn’t say anything. When Keith stepped inside, he saw Mike Wade and a thin, familiar-looking girl standing in the far corner of the room. They both looked uncomfortable.
“Keith,” the bishop said, “I think these people have something to tell you.”
Mike pointed to the girl. “My sister Sharon. I know we don’t look like we’re from the same family. I got all the healthy genes, I guess. She’s … ” Mike’s voice trailed off.
The pale girl started to speak. Before she could, it hit Keith.
“Hey, you’re the girl that came to my Sunday School class. And haven’t I seen you around school? Only with different hair?”
“Keith,” Sharon began in a soft, clear voice. “I’m afraid we’ve been doing some awful things to you. It was all my idea, so don’t blame Mike. We’ve been spying on you, following you, and causing you all sorts of grief.”
“I, I don’t understand.”
“I had to find out if you really believed what you said.”
“What I said about what?”
“Let’s just say we caught your broadcast from the lunchroom.”
“Ohhh no. Not that again,” Keith sighed.
She smiled. “It wasn’t only that. It’s a long story.”
Mike cut in. “We live near your church, and every day we’d wake up when your car would come chugging down the road.”
“I go to church on Sundays and early-morning seminary the rest of the week,” Keith explained. “I guess I better get my muffler fixed.”
Sharon picked up the story. “At first, the noise just made us mad. But then I got to thinking. Why would someone get up at 5:30 every morning? After hearing what you said last week, I—we—followed you to your church. I realized you go all alone; like no one’s forcing you to do this religious thing. I was curious to know more in view of my current situation.”
“Current situation,” Keith repeated mechanically.
“Under this wig, I don’t have any hair. Chemotherapy. And it’s not doing much good anymore.”
Keith stared blankly, then allowed what she had just told him to sink in.
“I’m not looking for miracle cures or healings. I’m beyond that, I think. What I am looking for is—how do I put this?—not why I’m going to die, but why I lived in the first place. Does my life count for anything? Is there some sort of plan to all this?”
“Anyway,” Mike continued, “Sharon’s got this funny feeling that maybe you know something most everybody else doesn’t. So she crashed your church class, eavesdropped, tested you, and even made me threaten you. I’m sorry about that.”
Keith looked from one to the other and found himself speechless.
“I don’t blame you if you’re angry, but I was getting kind of desperate to know if there was anybody out there who really believed in anything. I remember what you were saying in that church class, and it made me feel really good inside. I think you can tell me what I want to know. You can tell me why?”
Keith met her gaze. “Yeah, I think I can.”
The bishop, who had been standing behind them, finally spoke. “She’s asked to take the discussions from the missionaries, Keith. Maybe you’d like to sit in on them with her.”
Keith smiled and hooked a thumb at Mike. “What about His Wallness?”
Mike grinned. “Well, I could go. I guess I owe you that much.”
Keith added, “Maybe I could learn a few things too. Maybe even pick up a few pointers that will come in handy for the next two years.”

And I can testify that this is true, because I’ve experienced it firsthand.
When I was called to serve a mission on Temple Square, I was able to serve with other sister missionaries from over 40 different countries. It was amazing to see how despite our differences in culture, race, traditions, and even small things like food preferences, we were united as one through serving God and furthering the gospel of Jesus Christ.
We weren’t divided by differences—we saw the good in one another; we saw one another as children of heavenly parents, regardless of appearance or differences; and we loved one another dearly.
My mission was a beautiful experience I have always carried with me.

“Hurry, Cathy,” Anne called over her shoulder. Her tennis shoes pounded along the side of the road, and her ponytail swished from side to side.
“I am hurrying!” Cathy yelled back, barely three steps behind her. Laughing, they turned away from the road and ran across the gravel parking lot of Mr. Parkins’s Plant Place. Breathing hard, they burst through the front door into the rich smells of potting soil and damp, growing things.
“Well, hello, girls.” Mr. Parkins had a smile in his voice as he looked up from the cash register. “Did you come to work?”
“Yes, please,” Anne said. “Today and tomorrow.”
In the early spring Mr. Parkins often paid the neighborhood children to help transplant seedlings. “Where is your cousin Emmy today?” he asked.
“She went to help Granny,” Cathy said.
“Well, come along.” Mr. Parkins led them through the back door and into one of the long, low greenhouses. “We’re working on the petunias right now. I need all the help I can get. Are you saving up for anything special?”
Anne and Cathy exchanged a secret smile. “Yes,” Cathy answered. “A Mother’s Day present for Mum.”
“I know where you could get her some nice bedding plants at a good price.” Mr. Parkins winked at them.
“So do we!” the girls said together.
At the end of the greenhouse, Mr. Parkins opened another door and led them into another greenhouse. There, long tables were covered with solid flats of young petunia plants. Allen, Tom, and Lance were already working and laughing loudly.
Mr. Parkins stayed only long enough to make sure that the girls knew what to do, and to check on the boys’ work. “I’m sure glad the five of you could come,” he said as he left.
The greenhouse smelled warm and damp. The potting soil was crumbly and moist on Anne’s fingers as she carefully separated the tiny plants. Cathy worked silently beside her, filling each of the tiny container compartments with soil and planting the seedlings. For a long time no one said anything.
Then Lance elbowed Allen and whispered something in his ear. Allen laughed loudly, then whispered in Tom’s ear. Tom snorted.
Anne’s fingers started to shake, and she felt slightly sick. They were doing it again. “I wish Emmy was here,” she whispered to Cathy.
Cathy nodded. “So do I.”
In the next few minutes, Lance stopped whispering and started saying nasty things out loud. Some of it Anne didn’t understand, but she knew that it wasn’t good because of the way it made her feel. Again she wished Emmy was here. Emmy would know what to do. She was as brave as Nephi.
But Anne wasn’t Emmy, and she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid that if she asked the boys to stop, they’d just get worse. Now they were using words that Anne knew were not right.
She looked over at Cathy. Her sister’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she looked as if she was going to cry.
“Shall we leave?” Anne whispered to her.
“But I want to buy something nice for Mum,” Cathy said quietly.
“Yeah. Me too.” They were silent for a few seconds, trying to not listen to the boys. “Besides,” Anne added, “Mr. Parkins said he needs all the help he can get.”
Cathy nodded and blinked as two tears slid down her cheeks. She tucked her chin down so that Lance, Allen, and Tom wouldn’t know that she was crying.
Anne moved closer to her. She was angry now. It was hard to remember to be gentle with the plants. If only Emmy was here! she thought. If only I knew what to do! Suddenly she had an idea.
Softly, almost too softly to hear, she started humming “A Child’s Prayer.” When Cathy heard the first few notes, she looked up at Anne in surprise. She smiled. By the end of the song, both of them were softly humming together.
The boys were still making ugly jokes, but Anne didn’t feel angry any more. She started humming “I Am a Child of God,” only just a little louder. By the end of that song, Lance was quieter, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Anne, feeling braver, gave him a big smile as she started singing “Nephi’s Courage” out loud. Cathy joined in, and their two voices echoed sweetly off the walls and ceiling, while the boys’ voices softened to silence.
Anne and Cathy were still singing one Primary song after another when Mr. Parkins poked his head in an hour later. “Sounds good, girls.” He came over to the long table. “Your work is good too. But it’s almost dark—you’d better get on home. I’m glad you’ll be coming back tomorrow—I can always use good, cheerful help.”
Rubbing the soil off their fingers, the children followed Mr. Parkins out of the greenhouses and into the early evening light. Lance, Allen, and Tom scooted past Anne and Cathy.
“Primary babies,” Lance hissed as he went past. Anne just smiled at him again.
The air was cooler now, and goosebumps dotted the girls’ arms, but they didn’t feel cold.
“I feel all warm and happy,” Cathy said, looking up at the pink sky.
“Me, too,” Anne said. “Race you home!”

The year I turned eleven, I went on a three-day camping trip with my friend Don, my older brother, and my dad. And Bear. Bear is our black and white Border collie. He loves to run and chase outdoors.
We had a great time on that trip with Bear. We camped on a big cattle ranch among a lot of sagebrush and lava rock, and near a good fishing creek.
My brother, Nick, and I took Bear down to the creek every day. Bear loves to play in the water. He must think he’s fishing, but he sure doesn’t fish like the rest of us. He puts his left paw in the water and splashes all over the place. He also snaps at the water with his mouth. He makes such a commotion in the water that I’m sure that all the fish are soon at least ten miles downstream.
The last morning we were there, my brother and I left Bear at camp so we could do some real fishing at the creek. Don and Dad stayed in camp to clean up after breakfast.
After a little while Don came down to the creek. “Hey, Mike,” he said. “Your dog is dead.”
“He is not!”
“Well, he’s nearly dead. A rattlesnake bit him.”
My brother and I ran for camp as fast as we could. Don ran after us.
Sure enough, by the time we got to camp, Bear was lying real still by Dad’s tent. Dad had killed the rattlesnake, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do for Bear.
Bear had been bitten twice on the nose. It was red and swollen, and he was barely breathing.
I started to cry. I didn’t know what to do. My brother started to cry, too, but he knew what to do. “Dad, can we say a prayer for Bear?”
My Dad nodded. “Bear is a very sick dog,” he said. “You can say a prayer for Bear, but are you willing to accept it if he doesn’t live?”
“Yes,” my brother said. I could only nod.
All four of us gathered in a semicircle around Bear. Dad looked over at my big brother. “Nick,” he said. “I would like you to say the prayer because you have so much faith.”
I don’t remember what my brother said in his prayer, but I remember how I felt standing there with my head bowed.
When the prayer was over, Bear got up. He walked around a little, and then he ran. He seemed happy to be alive.
I was happy! I was so happy that I kept hugging Bear over and over. My big brother just stood there and cried some more. I didn’t understand then why he was crying when we were all so happy. I did understand one thing though—I knew that my brother had a lot of faith in prayer. And so did I.

There is a story told of an old Cherokee teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.
“It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”
He continued, “The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person too.”
Illustration by Allen Garns
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Olivio Gomes Manuel grew up in a small Angolan village. He and his seven brothers and sisters lived in a two-room mud hut with a dirt floor and thatched roof. Plumbing and electricity were unheard of.
When Olivio was nine years old, his country was thrust into an extremely violent civil war in which thousands were murdered or just disappeared. Then, when most of the fighting was over, famine swept through Angola, and thousands more died of starvation. “It was not a good life,” Olivio says, in his very deep, soft voice. Understatement is typical of him.
But Olivio was saved from starvation by his incredible height and agility. He was able to play basketball for food. “God blessed me,” he says.
By the age of eleven, Olivio was six-foot-three. He had been playing professional ball for about two years. “Professional” meant that the company that sponsored his team would sometimes feed him on game days. Some weeks, those were the only full meals Olivio ate.
And the road trips were the best of all—his meals were all taken care of. Olivio played in Nigeria, Algeria, Zaire, and even in Czechoslovakia. “I was there for ten days, and they gave us money for food,” says Olivio. “With this money I bought clothes and shoes for my family. It was difficult to buy clothes in Angola. They were so expensive.”
Olivio had been raised by his parents to be a good Christian, but at times his faith was tried. “If there is a God, how can he let so many people die—so many people suffer?” he asked. Still, Olivio could not deny that God had had a hand in his survival. He felt that he was being prepared for something.
When Olivio was seventeen, he played on a team for the Angloan military. All the boys in the country were required to go into the military for an indefinite amount of time. He also made the national team.
That’s when Olivio began to dream of playing ball in Portugal. He was fluent in Portuguese. (Angola is a former Portuguese colony, and Portuguese is the official language.) And what’s more, Olivio heard that they actually paid professional players salaries in Portugal. He would be able to send money home to his family.
It took Olivio a few years to get a visa to go. But once he arrived in Portugal, it took him only a few days to find a professional team that wanted him. At six-foot-seven, he not only had the stature they were looking for, but he also had the skill.
And it took him only a month to find something else. “I was on the metro, and I saw these two boys—they were only boys, but they were wearing nice suits—and they said they wanted to talk to me, so I said okay.
“They started to teach me the discussions. The Joseph Smith story surprised me, but it felt good. Everything felt good. One week later I went to a conference. I attended the meetings, and afterwards I was baptized. Baptism is for the remission of sins. I was a good guy, but I knew I needed to be baptized.”
Little did Olivio know what that baptism would lead to. When he wasn’t playing basketball, Olivio was at church. “I tried to go to church all the time. Every time I would go, my mind would open up, and I would learn something new. It felt good.”
Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That started Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God. I have to explain them to other people.”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and his professional team had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.
That isn’t the kind of fame that makes you a star on national television—it’s more the kind of fame that makes you a star in the eternities. And while he won’t make lots of money from gigantic contracts and endorsements, he knows that his eternal reward will be far greater.
Still, you see his eyes light up when you put a basketball in his hands on preparation day. Watching him glide around the court, you realize basketball is as natural for him as swimming is to fish. It seems to be what he was made for. Oh, once his mission is over he would like to use basketball to earn a university education. But then he wants to return to Angola “to help the Church and help the people grow there.” Elder Manuel speaks mostly Portuguese now, but he remembers his native language, an African dialect called Quinbondo, and he knows English as well.
Even though the end of this tale is far from written, it’s already a success story as tall as Elder Manuel himself. After all, the richest pro in the world can’t buy his way into heaven. And no matter how many autographs you’ve signed, if your name isn’t written in the book of life, your fame won’t mean a thing.
Elder Manuel has already gained more success than he ever hoped to, and his secret is simple: “I listen to God, and when I do what he says, he blesses me.”

I am very far away from home working as a nanny in Alexandria, Virginia, for a nonmember family. I love the New Era and read it every month. After the three young girls I care for had seen me read it day after day, they wanted me to tell them stories from it. I have read them stories from the April 1986 issue every night for quite a while. They love to hear the same stories over and over again. They frequently ask questions about my beliefs. This is my first step in missionary work, and it has been through the help of the New Era.
Kristin SorensonAlexandria, Virginia

A young piano student once became very discouraged by her mistakes. Each time she learned a piece, her teacher assigned a new and more difficult piece, and the student would begin playing wrong notes all over again. She concluded that she wasn’t learning anything, because she would always make mistakes in her new pieces. Then her teacher explained that nobody ever learned to play the piano without making many, many mistakes. The successful students are those who learn from their mistakes.

I sat uneasily in the soft chair, glancing about Mr. Blaine’s office. During four years at Canyon del Oro High School in Tucson I had been in the vice principal’s office only once before—as a representative of the Honor Society, making a request for a benefit dance.
As I waited for Mr. Blaine, I avoided casting even a cursory glance at “Rock” Broch, who sat in the chair next to me. I was still breathing heavily. Already my right eye was swelling with pain, my knuckles burned, and I suspected that there was still a little blood on my face even though I had tried to wipe it off with the back of my hand.
“Well, well,” a deep baritone boomed behind me. I stiffened as Mr. Blaine entered the office from behind. For a moment he stood behind his desk with his hands in his pockets, studying the two of us. He was a squat, muscular man with a prominent flat nose which, according to rumors, he had received as a semi-professional boxer when he was younger.
“Well, Mr. Williams, this is a surprise.” Sheepishly I returned his stare. “And you, Mr. Broch,” he added, turning from me. He rubbed his chin and then dropped into his chair. Hands behind his head, he studied us curiously. “It’s hard to tell who won,” he mused. “You both look a little worse for wear.”
I shifted nervously in my chair and glanced down at the gold carpeted floor. “Well, before I have your folks pick you up …”
“Pick us up?” I stammered, cutting in.
Mr. Blaine nodded. He glanced over at a calendar hanging on the wall. “Let’s see. Today’s Tuesday. You’ll be able to come back to school—next Monday morning.”
“Monday morning?” I rasped. “You mean we’re kicked out?” I leaned forward and wet my lips. “I have a wrestling tournament over at Flowing Wells this Friday and Saturday.”
Mr. Blaine began to chuckle dryly. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his brow. “You had a wrestling tournament, Mr. Williams. You just withdrew.”
His words hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t miss that tournament. Last season I had taken second out of 16 guys in my weight class, behind the same kid who later beat me for the state championship. This year the Flowing Wells Tournament was all mine. And it was to be my first step to the state championship.
I coughed. “Uh, Mr. Blaine, I really can’t miss that tournament. I mean …”
“You should have been thinking of that 15 minutes ago,” he cut me short. “Before you and Mr. Broch decided to break your knuckles on each other’s jaws.”
Mr. Blaine reached for a pen and began filling out our suspension forms. I waited a moment, hoping he would change his mind, at least allow for a little discussion. He didn’t even look up.
For years I’d had a goal of taking state in wrestling. But there had always been someone better just ahead of me. As a sophomore I was forced to wrestle junior varsity behind a kid who became state champion. As a junior, when I had the varsity spot at CDO, I made it all the way to the state championship round, only to lose by three points to a kid who took state for the second year in a row. But those kids were gone now. The championship was mine. I was sure of it. And then three weeks ago Rock Broch had moved in from Tucson High and challenged me at 145. Everybody called him “Rock” because he was hard and muscular. The year before he had taken state at 132.
Broch was a quiet kid with blond hair, a beach tan, and blue eyes. Every girl at CDO thought he was Tucson’s answer to Tom Cruise. Broch really wasn’t set on himself. But he was definitely set on my spot at 145. Under other circumstances we could have been good friends. I could get along with most anyone. But my senior year I couldn’t afford to have anybody between me and the state championship.
In order for anybody at CDO to nail down the varsity spot, he had to win two out of three matches against any challenger. The first time Broch and I wrestled in a challenge match I beat him seven to five. The next afternoon he beat me three to two. The following practice we wrestled to a two-two draw before Coach Rencher called us aside and made us a proposition.
“You know, guys,” Coach Rencher started out, “this is crazy. We’ve got the two best kids in the state, wrestling for the same spot. We’re going to be the only school in Arizona with a state champion wrestling JV. One of you ought to go to 155. There’s nobody in the state that can beat either one of you in either weight class.
“Broch can go to ’55 any time,” I said stubbornly.
“Don’t bet on it, Williams,” Broch muttered.
“It would be better for the team,” Coach Rencher pointed out. We didn’t listen. “All right, tomorrow you wrestle until one of you wins. There won’t be a draw. And every week for the rest of the season we’re going to go through these same challenges. It’s a lousy waste!”
I was convinced I could beat Broch. I might have done, but the next day right after my calculus class I saw Broch with Sandi Millet, a girl in my ward. We’d been friends for years. I had even dated her a few times. Nothing serious, but we were more than just good friends. During the last week or so I’d noticed Broch take an interest in Sandi. It had irritated me some, but I’d let it pass. Today had been different.
As I came down the hall, I saw Sandi and Broch together. They were laughing and talking, and for a moment he held her hand. Instantly I was furious. It was like he was trying to push his way into everything I did. Something snapped inside of me, and I stomped over to Broch.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” I growled, pushing myself into his face before he hardly knew I was there.
“What’s your problem, Williams?” he answered, taking a small step backward.
“I’m looking at him,” I retorted.
“Michael,” Sandi burst out. “Stop it!”
“You’re crowding me, Williams,” Broch muttered, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Maybe you’d better find someplace else to stand then,” I replied.
I don’t remember who pushed first. It all happened so quickly, the only thing I remember clearly was stumbling backward and bumping into two sophomore girls. From that point everything was a fast-moving blur. The fight didn’t last long, maybe 10 or 15 seconds. That’s when Mr. Raymond, the science teacher, stepped in between us and brought us to the office. When everything was over my nose and lip were bleeding, and my right eye was swelling shut. Rock had a small gash above his left eye, a raw bruise on his right cheekbone, and a puffy lower lip.
“You’ve had a little trouble?” Mom gasped on the phone when I called her from Mr. Blaine’s office. “What kind of trouble?” she pressed.
I could feel my cheeks color, and I wished that Mr. Blaine had at least allowed me a little privacy, but I had had to make the call right there with Mr. Blaine and Broch listening to me fumble for an explanation. “Just come down,” I asked.
Mom arrived before Broch’s mother. As soon as she stepped into the office her mouth dropped open and she stared aghast at my face and my shirt with the top two buttons torn off. She spotted Broch and the angry glare on his face. “What—” She couldn’t even finish.
“It wasn’t anything, Mom,” I tried to explain calmly.
Mom looked toward Mr. Blaine for an explanation. “It seems that your son and Mr. Broch had a difference of opinion,” he said casually. “As a result both boys have chosen to take a short vacation from school. Until next Monday.”
“Yes, I understand how fights start,” Dad nodded somberly that evening when I tried to explain what had happened between Rock Broch and me. “Over stupid little nothings that don’t make any difference at all the next morning when you have time to think about them. There are better ways of solving your differences than resorting to your fists.”
“It was that Broch kid,” I argued, still not wanting to admit any blame. “He’s been trying to squeeze me out since he came.”
“I thought you were going to settle that issue on the wrestling mat—where it meant something to both of you. Now neither one of you wrestles.”
“There is one good thing,” I came back sullenly. “I can get caught up on some of my schoolwork.”
But Dad had other plans. From five-thirty to eight in the morning I studied. From eight until five I was cleaning the yard, straightening the garage, painting, mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, dusting, polishing windows. There was no end to the chores heaped on me. Then from five till nine I was back with my books. By the end of the day the only thing I wanted to do was crash into bed.
For four days, including Saturday, I maintained that rigorous routine. There was no time for diversion. It was all work and study. I did have a chance to do some thinking. The first day I insisted to myself that I would do the same thing again. The second day I admitted to myself that I might have been a little rash. By Saturday night I really felt stupid about the whole thing.
I had never looked forward to Sunday with anything close to wild anticipation, but after four days of hard labor I was grateful that Mom and Dad believed firmly in Sunday being a day of rest. Sunday morning, while I was still enjoying the luxury of sleeping past five-thirty, Bishop Morris called and asked if I would go over to the Thurman’s in the afternoon and take them the sacrament. Sister Thurman had been bedridden for almost a year, and each month the priests were assigned to take her the sacrament.
“I’d like you to go with a new boy in the ward,” the bishop told me over the phone. “The Pankratz family moved into the Stromeyer’s place two or three weeks back. They have a boy who’s a senior. Maurice is his name. He’s been going to his old ward, but I’d like to get him involved in things over here. Brother Pankratz isn’t a member. Sister Pankratz is partially active. But Maurice has been a real stalwart according to his old bishop. I’d like to keep him that way. I talked to Maurice this morning and told him you’d pick him up and take him with you to the Thurman’s. It will give you a chance to get him involved in the ward.”
That afternoon I drove over to where the Stromeyers had lived. The woman who answered the door looked too old to be Maurice’s sister and too young to be his mother. For a moment I wasn’t sure I had the right place. “Mrs. Pankratz? Is—is Maurice here?” I finally managed to stammer. “I was supposed to pick him up.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling warmly, “so you’re the one the bishop called about. Come in. I’ll call Maurice.”
We started in, and then she stopped and studied my eye. Instinctively my hand shot to my face. I grinned sheepishly and shrugged.
“That’s a nasty bump,” she said.
I coughed to hide my embarrassment. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I muttered.
She led me into the living room and I sank into a large, cream-colored sofa. I spotted a news magazine on the coffee table in front of me and reached or it. Just then someone came down the hall and entered the room. Rock Broch!
The magazine dropped from my hands, and immediately I was on my feet. His shock was as sudden and as unexpected as mine. I noticed the dark slash just above his right eye, and I could see he had had stitches. For a short moment the two of us stared at each other, and then I blurted out, “What are you doing here?” Rock stared at me a moment and then answered coolly, “I live here. What’s your excuse?”
I swallowed and fidgeted anxiously. “I came to pick up Maurice,” I explained hoarsely.
“For what?” Rock demanded.
“Bishop Morris sent me over to pick him up.”
“Oh, you made it,” Mrs. Pankratz said cheerily as she came up behind Rock. “Have you two introduced yourselves?”
“We’ve run into each other at school,” Rock answered, still glaring at me.
Mrs. Pankratz studied Rock’s cut. She glanced at me and remarked lightly, “You and Maurice look like twins.” She smiled and patted Rock’s shoulder.
I hesitated. Maurice! When the bishop had said Maurice I had expected some myopic, mousy kid in thick-lensed glasses. Not Rock Broch! Immediately I began groping for an escape. There was none. I stammered, “We won’t be long. Just a few minutes.”
Stiffly the two of us walked to the car. I could feel my cheeks grow warm with color as I dug into my pocket for the keys. I jammed them into the ignition, started the engine, and pulled onto the street. For the first two blocks neither one of us spoke.
“I had no idea you were—Maurice,” I remarked. “You don’t look like Maurice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shook my head. “How was I supposed to know that you were Maurice Pankratz?”
“I’m Maurice Broch.”
I glanced over at him. “Who was that back there?”
“My mom. She and my dad were divorced when I was a kid. She married again.”
There was another spell of silence. “I didn’t know you were Mormon,” I said.
“It wasn’t exactly written all over you either. And you’re the first assistant in the priests quorum?” It was definitely an accusation of hypocrisy. Apparently the bishop had told him.
“I’m not perfect,” I answered. “But at least I go to church. I haven’t seen you lately.”
“I’ve been going to my old ward.” There was a pause and then a mumbled addition, “I was the first assistant in my old ward, and we were finishing up some …”
“You were the first assistant?” I cut in incredulously.
We drove the last nine blocks in baffled silence. When we did reach the Thurman’s place, I drove right past it with a quick comment, “That’s the Thurman’s place.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
I continued down the street for half a block and then pulled over to the curb. “We really ought to get someone else to do this,” I muttered, angry and frustrated with Rock and myself. “But I don’t even know who we could get now. Brother Reynolds is already back there waiting with his wife. He’s the priests adviser. And I’ve got the sacrament things.”
Rock didn’t respond immediately. Finally he did ask, “Well, are we going to just sit here and make them wait longer?”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the modest home of the Thurmans. Taking a deep breath I slumped down in the seat. “You don’t know the Thurmans.” I shook my head. “They’re good people. It kills Sister Thurman not to be able to go to church. A lot of people look for excuses not to go. Not her. The highlight of her whole month is when we take her the sacrament. Can you imagine that? She’s back there getting excited because we’re coming. She cries every time. She fasts ahead of time.” I smiled weakly. “She’s not even supposed to fast. She eats at three instead of noon. That’s as long as she can fast. Even then it makes her sick sometimes, but she does it anyway. And so what does she get today? Us,” I muttered bitterly.
For a couple of minutes the two of us just sat there. I can’t speak for Broch, but I was on one terrible guilt trip. I kept thinking about a scripture. It was something about going before the Lord and having bad feelings toward your neighbor. The challenge was to patch things up first with your neighbor and then go to the Lord.
I kept thinking of Brother and Sister Thurman waiting. She would be propped up and wrapped in blankets on their worn brown couch. He would be dressed in his gray suit and sitting on a kitchen chair next to her. There would be a small table to their right draped with a white cloth. That was for the sacrament. Two of the Laurels and their adviser, Sister Benson, would be there, along with Brother Reynolds and his wife. All of them would be waiting for Broch and me. I knew there was no way I could go into that humble home and administer the sacrament feeling the way I had toward Broch. The Thurmans deserved more than a display of hypocrisy.
I cleared my throat and sat up, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m sorry about Tuesday,” I muttered, still looking straight ahead over the hood of the car. Rock didn’t reply. “It was—” I swallowed. “It was a dumb thing to do.” I pressed my lips together. “I guess it was—well, it was probably my fault.” For the longest time I debated and then slowly I held my hand out to Rock. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.
He looked down at my outstretched hand and then reluctantly took it briefly. “But,” he added quickly, “this doesn’t change anything where wrestling is concerned.”
“I’ll be ready.”
We were inside the Thurman’s place for almost an hour. It was a simple service with Brother and Sister Thurman holding hands the whole while. Rock blessed the bread. I blessed the water. We had a short testimony meeting. Even Rock and I bore ours. Rock spoke of his plans of going on a mission. He confided in us his desire to get his mother and stepfather active in the Church. He talked about his real dad and how he hoped that someday he’d see the importance of the gospel in his life. He mentioned a commitment that he had made to read the scriptures every day, even if it was for just a few minutes. He expressed his appreciation for the opportunity of coming into the Thurmans’ home and feeling of their spirit.
Everyone there shed a tear or two; the Spirit was so strong.
It’s strange how an experience like that can change a person. I saw a side of Rock that I’d never even suspected. At one point during our meeting I glanced over at him and saw a mist in his eyes. At the same time I noticed the dark cut above his eye. I wondered how I could have ever been that angry with him.
After the closing prayer we shook hands with Brother and Sister Thurman. They thanked us over and over.
Rock and I didn’t speak all the way to his place. When I pulled into his driveway, we sat for a few seconds and then I remarked, “You know, I’ve been doing a little thinking. There are some things I could help you with in wrestling. But the way things are right now, I never will. I’d just be beating myself if I helped you out any. You could probably help me too. You have a mean fireman’s carry. I’ve never been much good with a fireman’s carry. But you wouldn’t want to help me if I was just going to turn around and use it on you.”
“I’ll go ’55,” Broch said quietly. “It’s really no big deal to me. You had the spot last year. I guess I’ve been pretty stubborn about the whole thing.”
“No,” I came back. “I wasn’t suggesting that. I’ll take ’55. That’s what I was building up to. At the start of the season I was probably a few pounds heavier than you.”
“No, I’ll take ’55. I want to.”
I looked over at him. “Shall we fight over who goes ’55?”
We both laughed.
“I guess we’ll never know who really was—” I didn’t finish. I shrugged. “And then maybe that never was important.”
Broch grinned. “Probably not. But don’t think just because we’re not in the same weight class that I’m going to let you slide.” He shook his head. “I’m going to be pushing you all the way. The first time you start dogging it and letting up, I’m going to hammer you.”
I laughed, feeling good. And here I’d thought Rock stood between me and the championship. Now I could see he might be the one who would help me reach it.

“Anxiety made me feel like my brain was going 100 miles per hour and like I couldn’t overcome anything. I felt very disorganized and like I couldn’t get a hold of my life and the tasks for the day. I felt very alone and like nobody knew what I was going through. The hardest part for me was the constant need to compare myself to others. I denied that I had anxiety for a long time until I took an anxiety test at the doctor’s office.”

“Genuine relationships helped me overcome my anxiety. When I started opening up to people, they listened and helped me understand my eternal potential. They took my mind off things that were overwhelming me but in the long run weren’t that important.
“I feel like everyone is different, but to help myself, I needed to get organized. The simple deed of planning my daily tasks helped me feel like I could tackle the day. I also prayed a lot. Heavenly Father helped me recognize that I needed to delete my social media for a time because I was comparing my life to everyone else’s lives, which in turn made me anxious. It helped a lot.”

That trust has blessed my life and the lives of my family. Years ago I heard President Ezra Taft Benson speak in a conference like this. He counseled us to do all we could to get out of debt and stay out. He mentioned mortgages on houses. He said that it might not be possible, but it would be best if we could pay off all our mortgage debt.
I turned to my wife after the meeting and asked, “Do you think there is any way we could do that?” At first we couldn’t. And then by evening I thought of a property we had acquired in another state. For years we had tried to sell it without success.
But because we trusted God and a few words from the midst of His servant’s message, we placed a phone call Monday morning to the man in San Francisco who had our property listed to sell. I had called him a few weeks before, and he had said then, “We haven’t had anyone show interest in your property for years.”
But on the Monday after conference, I heard an answer that to this day strengthens my trust in God and His servants.
The man on the phone said, “I am surprised by your call. A man came in today inquiring whether he could buy your property.” In amazement I asked, “How much did he offer to pay?” It was a few dollars more than the amount of our mortgage.
A person might say that was only a coincidence. But our mortgage was paid off. And our family still listens for any word in a prophet’s message that might be sent to tell what we should do to find the security and peace God wants for us.

Guillermo Soto, his wife, Pilar, and their children are like many Chileans who have found the Church during the past four decades.
“The missionaries would always greet us in the street,” Pilar recalls. “One day they asked whether they could come over for a visit. I told them we wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation in our home because our eight children made a lot of noise. One of the elders replied, ‘Excellent! I have five brothers and sisters myself.’”
The missionaries came, and their message rang true. Soto family members, who had often spent evenings together singing and playing games, embraced the family home evening program. Word of Wisdom warnings against tobacco coincided with familial prohibitions against smoking in the home, but posed a challenge for Guillermo, a professional musician who directs music for television programs.
“As a teenager I had found peace and love by studying the Bible,” Guillermo says. “But I later lost my way and began living a worldly life.”
The Soto children who were old enough were baptized in 1994, but Pilar waited until her husband was ready. Guillermo struggled with the Word of Wisdom until his prayers about the gospel’s truthfulness were answered.
“I received an answer many times,” he says. “Once I imagined seeing myself come up out of the waters of baptism pure and clean, and I began to weep. I felt something very special and decided that I needed to get baptized.”
Brother Soto left behind his struggles with the Word of Wisdom but kept his musician friends. “My presence in my group of friends is important,” he says. “I am preaching the gospel by leading a new life. Little by little my friends will become interested in the Church.”
These days the sounds coming from the Soto home include prayers of thanksgiving and the harmony of Guillermo, Pilar, and their children singing gospel hymns. The closeness they shared before baptism has increased as their understanding of the gospel has grown. In their Tierra del Fuego Ward in north Santiago, Brother and Sister Soto serve respectively as elders quorum president and Relief Society president.
“I had always asked God to put me on a path where I could grow with my family, where Pilar and I could do the right things for our children, where they could grow strong and find some heaven on earth,” Brother Soto says. “It has been a long journey, but at last we are on that path.”

When I was nine years old, we had a family home evening lesson on safety. My mom taught us about stranger danger and what to do if we were ever in harm’s way. I didn’t think much about the lesson until about six months later. I was jogging home when a man driving a dark car stopped and yelled at me to get in his car. I was scared and worried that he would hurt me if I didn’t get in his car, but then I remembered the family home evening lesson. I ran in the other direction away from the car and the man drove off. I told my mom what had happened and she called the police. Mom told me that she had prayed that day for my protection, and she had felt inspired to plan the lesson on stranger danger. My mom and dad are Jesus’s helpers. They are two of the shepherds who are here to protect and watch over me. I am grateful for them.

When you think of the Netherlands, you probably think of wooden shoes, tulips, and windmills. But the Netherlands is also home to youth who are strong in the gospel. Here’s what some of them had to say about their testimonies and beliefs in gospel principles:
“I was home-teaching and had to give the lesson. I talked about Jesus Christ, the Resurrection, and life after death. While I was teaching the lesson, I felt it was true. I almost cried because I really felt it deep inside me.”
—Jos Reijnders, age 16

“Cami asked me if I wanted to go to church. At first I thought, no, I didn’t really want to. Then I decided that since I hadn’t been baptized into any church, I ought to start looking around and seeing what I believe in. I went with Cami, and the things I was taught I believed, so I started going to church more often. When I had the missionary lessons, I felt I was ready to be baptized.”
Tami HowellLong Beach California East Stake

I have a sweet memory of a prayer that I treasure. For one of my summer breaks from college, I accepted a job in Texas. I had to drive hundreds of miles from Idaho to Texas in my old car, a car I had affectionately named Vern. Vern was packed to the roof, and I was ready for the new adventure.
On my way out the door, I gave my dear mother a hug and she said, “Let’s say a prayer before you leave.”
We knelt and my mother began to pray. She pleaded with Heavenly Father for my safety. She prayed for my non-air-conditioned car, asking that the car would function as I needed. She asked for angels to be with me throughout the summer. She prayed and prayed and prayed.
The peace that came from that prayer gave me the courage to trust in the Lord and lean not to my own understanding. The Lord directed my path in the many decisions I made that summer.

A few years ago I had just reported to the mission field in Sacramento, California, as the new mission president. I had some questions that I thought were important, so I wrote a very formal letter to the First Quorum of the Seventy.
“Dear President Young.” He was the senior president then, and I listed the questions. Pretty soon, back came an answer. “Dear President Buckner.” And he listed all of the answers. Then at the bottom, in his own handwriting, he included a P.S. “Got your head above water yet, kid? If not, keep cooking.”
You know, it taught me a great lesson. Young men, you need to learn to do your best, wherever you are.

The subject in the family relations class I taught in my ward Sunday School was how to communicate with teenagers. When I asked the class members—all parents of teenagers—to identify the most important issues or concerns they had in dealing with young people, the question at the top of the list was: “How can I get my son or daughter to talk with me? I know they are facing problems that worry and trouble them, but when I ask them ‘What is the matter?’ they respond with something like ‘Nothing,’ or ‘You wouldn’t understand.’”
These parents also identified a wide range of other issues and concerns, but the consensus was, “If we could just talk over all these things, we might be able to help our teenagers cope better with the problems in their world.”
Is there anything parents can do to improve communication with their teenagers?
First, parents need to remember that children rarely initiate discussions on matters of concern, then ask for parental advice. I asked the parents in my class how many of them, as teenagers, had gone to their parents to talk over problems. Most had never done it. I asked why. The answers: “I was afraid it would embarrass me and my parents,” “I didn’t think they would understand,” and “They would have told me that I worried too much, or that everything was going to turn out just fine.”
One father reported that he had asked his teenage son, “Why don’t you ever come to me to talk over your problems?”
The son had answered, “Did you ever talk things over with your dad?”
“No,” the man replied.
His son said: “Things aren’t so different now.”
If teens don’t come to discuss serious things with parents, what can parents do? A common strategy is to try to get the young people to “open up.” This usually results in questions they interpret as prying. “Why are you so moody?”
“What happened at school today?” “Why did you get such a poor grade on that test?”
A better approach is to find an opportunity to share your own experiences with your son or daughter. The young people may not talk much, but they will usually listen with interest if you talk about how you felt when you failed an exam, or didn’t get a date, or disliked your math teacher, or didn’t get invited to a party. Just talk and share; let them know about you and learn what they will from your experiences.
Two mothers in my class tried this, with somewhat different results. One knew her son was upset because he had not done as well as he wanted on a school project and in a musical program for which he had to play an instrument. She found occasion to talk about how miserable she had been when she got a bad grade, feeling down on herself; but she had finally accepted the fact that she could not always be perfect. She told him she knew that he probably got some of his perfectionism from her, and she hoped he would be able to deal with mistakes better than she had. Her son listened with interest and afterward said, “Thanks, Mom, that was a real help.”
The other mother said she had tried to talk with her son about some of her experiences as a teenager and had told him she had felt that sometimes her parents and teachers didn’t understand what she was going through. When she finished, her son asked, “Is that all?” She said yes, and he left without another word.
She interpreted his response as rejection and felt that what she had said to him had no impact at all. My own feeling is that he may have been impressed more than she knew; at least he listened all the way through and did not become defensive, as often happened when she asked him questions or lectured.

“We were teaching Kim and Jan Smith, two teenage girls from River Falls, Wisconsin,” said Sister Lisa Anderson. “We were trying to explain the need for faith. We showed them a New Era story and I said, ‘This is about a teenage kid, just like you, and this is what she did.’ And I gave them the magazine to read, and they really liked it. I think it’s essential when you’re teaching teenagers that they can see kids their own age. It impressed them that there were real-life stories they could compare themselves to.”

Soon afterward, Kim and Jan were baptized.

You have had such experiences. It may have been when you chose to attend a sacrament meeting. It was for me on a Sabbath when I was very young. In those days we received the sacrament during an evening meeting. The memory of one day more than 65 years ago, when I kept the commandment to gather with my family and with the Saints, still draws me closer to the Savior.
It was dark and cold outside. I remember feeling light and warmth in the chapel that evening with my parents. We partook of the sacrament, administered by Aaronic Priesthood holders, covenanting with our Heavenly Father to always remember His Son and keep His commandments.
At the end of the meeting we sang the hymn “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide,” with the words in it “O Savior, stay this night with me.”3
I felt the Savior’s love and closeness that evening. And I felt the comfort of the Holy Ghost.