Gospel Story Finder

It’s like visiting Buck Roger’s control room. There are knobs and dials everywhere. On one wall hang maps of the earth, zoned into sections labeled with letters and numbers. On another wall, cards emblazoned with cryptic codes record locations where transmissions have been acknowledged—Holland, Italy, Antarctica, Gambia, the Indian Ocean.
At the control panel, the 18-year-old engineer twists the dial governing the tower’s signals. He has heard a CQ, a general request for anyone listening to respond. Aiming his beam in the proper direction, he taps out Morse code on an electronic keyer, and the dots and dashes identifying him as K3TA flash around the world.
K3TA is not a refugee who used to wander the galaxies with Artoo Detoo and See Threepio. And the scene described above isn’t a passage from an old science fiction novel. What is going on is an everyday occurrence in the life of Michael St. Clair, a priest in the Potomac Ward, Washington D.C. Stake, who is a ham radio operator. K3TA is a code that identifies the station he operates.
The station is located not on some exotic starship but in his bedroom. And the 100-foot tower is in the backyard. But from that bedroom transmitting and receiving station, Mike has spoken with people from more than 200 countries.
“I’ve talked to just about every country a person would normally think of,” Mike says, “except China. They haven’t allowed amateur radio there for a long time. But I read in a radio magazine that they might start it up again.”
If they do, Mike may be able to check off another name on his list of places he has talked to. The American Radio Relay League (ARRL), the organization of ham radio operators in the United States, publishes a list of 330 contactable “countries,” and Mike hopes to some day reach all of them. The list includes a lot of locations not normally classified as nations. “For example, Hawaii counts as a separate country as far as radio is concerned,” Mike explains. The list also includes remote locations which are either unexplored or undeveloped. “To make contact with a place like that, you usually have to wait for an expedition from outside to travel through.”
Just the same, Mike’s activity has brought him recognition for having confirmed contact with so many people in so many places. He has earned the league’s WAS (“Worked All States”) award and has qualified for the DXCC (“Distance Century Club”) award. WAS is a recognition given to amateur operators who have talked to someone in each of the states in the U.S. DXCC is awarded to those who have confirmed contact with operators in at least 100 foreign countries.
To receive the DXCC, Mike has to receive a card from each of the places contacted, then make application to the league. “The cards take a long time to come in, because they go through a central bureau. Sometimes they don’t arrive until a year after you talk to someone.” So, although Mike has talked to people all over the globe, he’s still waiting for two more cards before he can technically earn the DXCC. It’s just a matter of time before the cards finally arrive.
Like enthusiasts of any sport or hobby, amateur radio operators love to have contests to sharpen their skills. And Mike has done well in contests, too. The contests involve contacting as many stations as possible during a certain amount of time. “During the longer contests, I might contact as many as 5,000 operators,” Mike says. “The real reason for contests is to improve your skill as an operator, and it does take a lot of skill.” Contests range from 4 hours on one day to 96 hours spread over two weekends, though most contests are for either 48 straight hours or for 36 hours during a 48-hour period. “It gets tiring, but I keep going. That’s part of the excitement.”
There are domestic contests (within the U.S.) and international contests. “I’ve never won a world contest before,” Mike says, “but I’ve placed in the top 50.” Mike has made special arrangements not to compete on Sundays and is also lobbying to have Sunday contests eliminated. “I think it is good for my radio friends who are not members of the Church to know that I consider my standards more important than winning a worldwide contest,” Mike says.
Mike’s interest in amateur radio (the term ham is a nickname for the same thing) began while he was young. “We set up an electric train in the basement when I was about five, and I started figuring out how it ran. I’ve been working with wires ever since.”
His uncle is a ham in Columbia, South Carolina, and he has given Mike a lot of support. They talk to each other once a week. Another uncle in Ephraim, Utah, is also on the air and contacts Michael from time to time.
“Lots of operators are willing to help, to give advice,” Mike says. “And there are classes and books available. Just meeting a lot of friends builds your technical background, if you go to club meetings. I’ve learned a lot from talking to people on the air, too.
“My uncle gave me a home-built transmitter, which I used along with a receiver I built from a kit. You can get a novice (beginner’s) license from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), and with less than $100 worth of equipment, be operating a Morse code station.”
Mike got his novice license in August 1975, received his general license eight months later, his advanced license “a couple of months after that,” and now holds the highest license, the extra class license. There is one other license, the technician license, but it is used mostly for business communication, and higher licenses have the same privileges, so Mike bypassed it.
A novice licensee is allowed to broadcast only in Morse code. If he attains a higher license, however, he is allowed to broadcast his voice. “I started out memorizing Morse code,” Mike says. “Then I had a record with a very slow code speed, and I practiced off the air. Once I got on the air, I didn’t have any interest in receiving from a record. The main thing that pushed me to learn code was foreign stations sending it faster than I could receive, so I kept on pushing.”
There is usually not a language barrier, since most operators speak English, Mike explains. “But it’s nice to know a few basic words from their language, too. I’ve learned a lot about other countries, and I’ve had a chance to practice my Spanish.”
Mike has learned a lot about many things because of his involvement with amateur radio. He learned about family love as his parents, brothers, and sister helped with construction of the tower: “It’s a sacrifice for my parents to let me have it, and we’ll probably take it down while I’m on my mission. But everybody sure pitched in to help me build it.”
Mike paid for the tower himself, mostly from money he earned on his paper route. That taught him how to budget and how to work for what he wants. He also had to obtain building permits and file applications with the county in order to have permission to erect the tower. “I had to decide where the guy lines should go, how big of a tower to put up, draw the designs, and make the calculations all on my own. Now I know how the permit system works in case I ever want to build a home or remodel.”
At least with the tower in the backyard, it’s easy to tell friends how to find the house.
Mike’s experience in electronics paid off when he obtained a job as an engineer at a local FM radio station. It has also allowed him to help at Church dances because he can record high-fidelity dance music. He is wiring speakers to the cry room and the nursery at his meeting house as a service project.
But his greatest joy in working with radio has been the opportunity it has provided for him to help people contact each other. “I have handled relaying messages back into the U.S. for a lot of people. Washington, D.C., is a popular area for ham radio messages because a lot of people from the State Department and other government bureaus overseas want to keep in touch with their families. They may be in Africa or they may be scientists in Antarctica, like the one who told me it was -90° F. the day he called. I have a friend whose family is living in South America, and he comes over every Wednesday night and we use the radio to talk to them.”
Though he has never been involved in sending emergency messages with the radio, Mike is also aware that often ham stations are used when other forms of communication are blocked. “I will be glad to help if I ever can,” he says.
His radio has also provided an opportunity to talk to people about the Church. “I lead into it some way, and they’re usually pretty curious,” Mike says. “I had a conversation with a strong Catholic from California once, and it was over the air so anybody could listen in. When I contact anyone from Utah, I always ask them if they’re members of the Church. I belong to a local radio club, and I’ve made a lot of friends there, too. One of them seems very interested in the Church, and I think he might make it all the way to becoming a member.”
In addition to his love for radio, Mike is involved with photography, swimming, working with the full-time missionaries, home teaching with his father, kicking the soccer ball around with his brothers, helping his brother Greg with his aquarium, and fulfilling his quorum responsibilities as second assistant to the president.
He plans to attend BYU starting this fall and study electrical engineering and math. He hopes that some of his brothers (Jeff, 12; Kent, 9; Greg, 16; and newborn Scott, 3 months) or his sister (Mary, 4) will also get interested in ham radio so that he can share his experience with them (although they do all talk with their uncles on the air already). “I hope to keep in touch with the family via amateur radio while I’m away at BYU,” he says.
Mike’s greatest goal right now, however, is to go on a mission. It doesn’t matter exactly where he gets sent, he says. Chances are he’s already spoken to somebody who lives there.

Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I was ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. This meant that I would now be asked to say the sacred sacrament prayers. I remember that I was really nervous my first time.

The other priests asked if I wanted to say the sacrament prayer on the bread or on the water. I pondered for a moment. “The pray on the bread was first and I would be done sooner. However, it was longer. The prayer on the water was shorter, but I might choke on the sacrament bread I would take right before saying the prayer and that would make it hard to talk. Whatever the reason, I chose to say the prayer for the water.

As the bread was being passed, I remember the feeling of anxiety building up inside of me. I was really scared. But throughout my young life, I had learned to turn to my Father in Heaven for help and comfort. So while the deacons passed the bread, I was praying in my heart that I would be able to fulfill my assignment and say the prayer on the water well.

As I knelt down and looked at the prayer card, I felt a warm gentle hand on my shoulder. It was as real as could be. So real that I turned around to see who it was. But, no one was there. It was at this time that I felt the warm tingly feeling. I knew God had heard my prayer and was sustaining me in fulfilling my assignment. I proceeded and was able to bless the sacrament water with confidence.

Another priesthood calling that I have been thinking about came to me many years later, when I had my own family. We had moved back to Frankfurt, Germany, and I had just received a promotion at work that would require a great deal of my time and attention. During this busy season of my life, Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin extended a call to me to serve as stake president.
During my interview with him, many thoughts raced through my mind, not the least of which was the unsettling worry that I might not have the time this calling would require. Although I felt humbled and honored by the call, I briefly wondered if I could accept it. But it was only a fleeting thought because I knew that Elder Wirthlin was called of God and that he was doing the Lord’s work. What could I do but accept?
There are times when we have to step into the darkness in faith, confident that God will place solid ground beneath our feet once we do. And so I accepted gladly, knowing that God would provide.
In the early days of this assignment, we were privileged as a stake to receive training from some of the greatest teachers and leaders in the Church—men like Elder Russell M. Nelson and President Thomas S. Monson came to our area. Their teaching was like the dew from heaven and an inspiration for us. I still have the notes I took during these training sessions. These Brethren gave us the vision of what it means to establish the kingdom of God by building personal testimonies and strengthening families. They helped us see how to apply gospel truth and principles to our specific circumstances and for our specific time. To put it another way, inspired leaders helped us to see the why of the gospel, and then we had to roll up our sleeves and go to work.
It wasn’t long before we realized that there were a lot of things a stake presidency could do—so many, in fact, that if we didn’t set inspired priorities, we might miss doing the important ones. Competing priorities began to arise, deflecting our focus from the vision shared by the Brethren. There were many “good” things to do, but not all of them mattered most.
We learned an important lesson: the fact that something is good is not always reason enough to require our time and resources. Our activities, initiatives, and plans should be inspired by and grounded upon the why of our priesthood service and not by any flashy trend or interest of the moment. Otherwise, they can distract our efforts, dilute our energy, and get us caught up in our own hobbies, spiritual or temporal, that are not at the center of discipleship.

My friend Stephen was not just any friend. He was awesome in every way, and I really looked up to him. One day, he asked me if I wanted to know about something that made him incredibly happy. Of course I did. Anything that was important to him was important to me. He continued to ask me other questions before he would reveal what it was that made him so happy. Did I want to know the truth? I finally realized that he was probably talking about his church. After a couple of weeks, he asked if I would speak with the missionaries. I thought, “Why not? Nothing is going to happen from just one visit.”
The day came to meet the missionaries, and as I walked into Stephen’s house, I was quite nervous. I had no idea what to expect. The elders introduced themselves. They seemed extremely nice and fun. Then after a prayer, they began the first discussion. I remember the feeling so well. As they talked about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, and Jesus Christ, I knew that there was something special about this gospel.
When I arrived home, I told my mom everything I had learned and how much sense it made. My mom seemed slightly interested but not even close to the level of excitement I had. I was filled with some sort of energy, and I wanted to know more.
The next week I had the second discussion. Again, everything taught made sense. At the close of the discussion, one of the elders asked if I would be baptized. Honestly, I was shocked. I didn’t think this question would come up so soon. I told the elders that I simply didn’t know. They asked me to kneel with them and pray aloud to know if the things I had been taught were true. I had never prayed vocally with others before, so I was rather timid.
My best friend, the missionaries, and I knelt, and I prayed. I prayed to Heavenly Father to know if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I asked if the Book of Mormon was true. I pleaded to know if this was the true church and if it was in His plan for me to join it. I prayed for guidance and direction. I prayed to know what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. After probably 10 minutes of sincere prayer, I said amen and opened my eyes.
All I could feel was the Spirit. It was the most wonderful feeling I had ever felt. I was amazed with the knowledge and truth I had just been blessed with. I looked at the missionaries and told them I wanted to be baptized. We set the date. I knew at that moment that everything I had been taught and everything to come was true. I had gained my own testimony.
When I told my mother, she was more understanding than I had expected. She told me that if I really felt this was what I needed to do, then I should do it.
Sooner than I could believe, I was getting ready to be baptized. My whole family attended, which made it even more special. As my best friend and I walked into the font, wearing all white, the Spirit was present. I was about to be clean, as clean as I had been when I was born.
When I came out of the water, I couldn’t believe it. I had been baptized. This was my first best day.
The missionaries soon started teaching my family the discussions. My family had a hard time grasping concepts such as the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith, key concepts to the Church. But they kept listening to the discussions.
Finally, during the sixth discussion, the elders asked my family to be baptized. The room was silent. After a few moments, my dad looked up and said, “Yes, this is what we need to do.” I was in awe because my dad had never been very faithful about going to church. He looked at my mom, and she also said yes. My 14-year-old brother was in tears. He, too, wanted to be baptized. Three months after my baptism, my family was baptized. This was my second best day.
About a year later, my family was sealed in the Atlanta Georgia Temple. As we walked into the sealing room, the Spirit overwhelmed me. We knelt together as a family and were sealed together forever. This was the best day of all.
I love this Church. I am thankful for Jesus Christ, Heavenly Father, my friend, and the missionaries who taught me the gospel. Now, thanks to them, each of my days can be a best day.

In 2001, the old Spori Building was scheduled for demolition so a new one could be built in its place. We at the electrical shop were concerned that a high-voltage distribution switch, powering numerous buildings and sitting next to the Spori Building, may be damaged from falling debris three stories up. The decision to cover it with railroad ties seemed like a reasonable solution. As we waited for the building to be razed, one of our vendors from California was scheduled to visit us and discuss some new transformers they were selling. Instead, he brought a sales representative to show us a new temporary junction bus for high-voltage distribution that could be used anywhere. Well, that was random, but interesting. Then, the next few weeks proved even more interesting and urgent as the Spori high-voltage switch began to leak dielectric gas insulation. SF6, or sulfur hexafluoride, is very expensive, and we were losing about $1,500 in gas every 4 days. We were in between a rock and a hard place. To buy a new gas switch would cost around $20,000 and take about 16 weeks to build and ship.

Don’t worry, we now have spares. But back then, no spares and no way to stop the leak. But ding ding, in my mind, the vendor from California had on his shelf a temporary solution. How convenient. We air freighted the junction bus in, removed the leaking switch, and pulled all of the high-voltage cable into an underground vault and onto our junctions, then ordered a new switch and waited for the demo. The night the demolition started, two caterpillar dozers looped a cable between them and were going to drag it through the old, pioneer-built, rock structure. Nothing happened, so they decided to saw through the building with the cable. A small friction fire developed after a few back and forth pulls, and suddenly the entire building was on fire. It burned to the ground. How long those railroad ties would have burned protecting our switch—well, we never had to find out; the high-voltage cables were safely underground and out of harm’s way. Even more miraculous, the leaking gas switch never lost another ounce of sulfur hexafluoride. We replaced it anyway, and that became our spare.

With Christ and our Heavenly Father, there are no random events. They are in the very details of our lives. The Spori miracle had to be so precise and the timing so exact in order for so many moving parts to come together at the right time.

Lucy worried about her husband Joseph Sr. and wanted him to join her in attending religious meetings. She often went to the grove of trees near their home to pray. She wrote:

I retired to a grove not far distant, where I prayed to the Lord in behalf of my husband—that the true gospel might be presented to him and that his heart might be softened so as to receive it, or, that he might become more religiously inclined.[1]

When the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored, Joseph’s father became a faithful member. Lucy Mack Smith’s prayers were answered through the prayer of her son.

Name a town?
In a small town in Kentucky, USA, the very first postmaster didn’t think much of his own handwriting. He figured that if a town had a number as its name, then it’d be easier to read and understand that name on an envelope even if somebody had bad handwriting.
He reached into his pocket, counted the loose change (88 cents), and Eighty Eight, Kentucky, was born. The town name stuck and has been used ever since.1

The prophet Joel also indicated that old men would dream dreams. This statement caused me to reflect on the experiences that have changed my life. Such an experience occurred when I was about your age. In my late teens a bishop called me to be a Sunday School teacher of eight-year-olds. I will always remember the trepidation I felt prior to the first class and the wonderment that someone believed in me enough to trust young people to my stewardship. I put my heart and soul into preparing for the class. I studied the scriptures as well as the manual and enjoyed the beauty and cogency of the Lord’s word. One day as I was preparing a lesson, a thought came to me regarding the importance of the Lord’s teachings and the scriptures and their applicability in my life. A strong, warm sensation saturated my being as the thought passed through my consciousness. That day I felt the swellings of the Holy Spirit within me, and I sensed the power that comes when one searches the scriptures. It was the beginning of a personal testimony.

“Time for family prayer,” Dad called.
I quickly finished brushing my teeth. As I hurried down the hallway, I almost fell over a ball of orange fur that dashed between my legs.
“Mac!” I yelled, startled. “Why do you always do that?”
But Macaroni, our big tabby cat, ignored my protests and hurried on to my parents’ bedroom.
Mom laughed. “Mac beat you again.”
“Mac the prayer cat,” murmured my little sister as she scratched behind his ears. “He never misses family prayer.”
“Why do you think he likes family prayer so much?” Dad asked.
“Because he knows he’ll get his ears scratched?” I suggested.
“I think he can feel the love in the room,” Mom replied seriously.
My brother giggled. “Sometimes Mac rubs his head on my bare feet when I’m kneeling, and it tickles.”
“Should we keep him out of the room when we pray?” Dad said. “Is he too distracting?”
“No!” we all said together.
“This is family prayer and he’s a part of our family,” I pointed out. “He’s welcome to come, even if he does almost trip me every night.”
We later learned that Mac was a prayer cat in more ways than one. I discovered this one afternoon when I couldn’t find my list of spelling words. I needed it to study for a big test the next day, but it wasn’t in my backpack or with my schoolbooks. I was frantic. I came out from looking under my bed and saw Mac watching me.
“What do you want?” I said irritably. “It’s not time for family prayer. Go away, you silly cat.”
Mac just sat staring at me. As I looked at him, I remembered that I hadn’t prayed.
“Well, maybe you’re right,” I admitted. “This is probably the perfect time for a prayer.”
I knelt by my bed and asked Heavenly Father to help me find my spelling list. When I finished, I felt Mac brushing his head against my arm. I sat down and scratched behind his ears. Then I remembered! On the way home from school I had taken my list out to practice the spelling words with my friend. Quickly I felt in my coat pocket and found the list.
“Thanks, Mac,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me that any time is a good time for prayer.” Then I knelt again and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me.
A few weeks later, Mac suddenly went missing. He didn’t come back the next day, or the next. We were terribly worried, but we knew just what to do. Dad and my brother put up posters and talked to the neighbors. Mom notified the animal shelter. And all of us prayed.
After three days, Mac came home. He was thin and dirty, but safe. We were all grateful.
That night, when family prayer was called, I was happy to stand aside and let Mac precede me down the hall to the bedroom.
“Mac the prayer cat,” my sister said, scratching his head. “At night he reminds us to have family prayer.”
“And during the day he reminds us to pray anytime we need help,” I added.
“Even when he’s gone he reminds us to pray for him to come back,” my brother said.
“And now that he’s back,” Mom said, “he reminds us that prayers are heard and answered.”
“Can you tell how glad we are to have you in our family, Mac?” Dad asked.
In answer, Mac curled up in the middle of our family circle and purred.

Sister Cook was parked in the driveway, the motor running. Molly hurriedly finished tying her Sunday shoes and ran for the front door.
She stopped midrun. Her scriptures were not on the table next to the door. “Where are my scriptures?” she called to Mom sitting in the living room.
“I don’t know. Sorry, honey.”
“They were right here,” Molly insisted. “Somebody moved them.”
“I guess you’ll have to find them later.”
Molly yanked open the door and ran to the waiting car. “Justin probably grabbed my scriptures,” she muttered angrily.
Three-year-old Justin liked snooping in his sister’s belongings. Her homework and books and baseball equipment were always disappearing. Later she’d find them in the strangest places. Her soccer shin guards ended up in the refrigerator once. Justin had put them in the vegetable bin. Sometimes it was funny.
But it wasn’t funny today. It never was on Sundays. Even though her Valiant A teacher picked her up every week for church, Molly felt like she was alone. She was the only kid in the ward whose family didn’t go to church with her.
On Saturday nights she set her alarm clock for 7 A.M. When it went off, she got up and took a quiet bath and fixed her own breakfast. Everybody else was still asleep, although sometimes Justin came out to the kitchen in his pajamas and ate a bowl of cereal with her.
By the time she left, Mom and Dad were in the living room, reading the Sunday newspaper, its pages spread out all over the couch. Later they would play tennis. In her mind Molly could imagine them hitting the ball back and forth across the net, laughing and enjoying the cool fall weather. Justin would be running after the stray balls and giggling.
Her parents never stopped her from going to church, but they never went with her, either. Most of the time Molly tried not to mind. But sometimes it hurt.
Mom and Dad had gone to a meeting at church only once—to see her baptism. Molly had insisted that she wanted to be baptized. She had been awfully disappointed that Dad wasn’t the one to baptize her. And afterward her parents had left without staying to visit with the other people in the ward who had attended.
Sister Cook always told Molly to give her family time to feel more comfortable with the ward members. Someday her parents would regain their testimonies that the gospel was true and would come back to church.
One Sunday morning Sister Cook had given a lesson about the bishop and the ward family. The bishop was like a father to the ward, she had said. He was there to help the ward members, to help and counsel them just as a father does. The members of the church were like brothers and sisters, and they could be like one big happy family.
Thinking of that had helped for a while, but when she looked around the chapel at all the families sitting together, Molly again felt sad. It just wasn’t the same sitting next to Sister Cook’s family during sacrament meeting.
Today, at the end of Primary, the Primary president, Sister Miller, passed out the speaking parts for the Children’s Sacrament Meeting Presentation. She gave Molly a folded slip of paper and winked at her. The paper read: “Your topic is ‘Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.’ Tell two or three reasons why your family is special to you.”
Molly read the paper twice on the way home. She felt as if someone had knocked the breath out of her. Why did Sister Miller give me a talk about families? I can’t do this assignment. Doesn’t she know how I feel? My family isn’t active at all. They don’t even like church! It isn’t fair!
When Sister Cook pulled up to her house, Molly mumbled good-bye, slammed the car door, and ran up the sidewalk. The entry hall shook when she slammed the front door too.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Mom asked. Still wearing her tennis clothes, she was putting the rackets and balls in the hall closet.
“Nothing.” Molly started for her bedroom, then turned back to look at her mother. “I have a part in the Primary Sacrament Meeting Presentation. I’ll get to speak at the pulpit, just like the bishop.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s in three weeks. Will you and Dad and Justin come see me give my talk?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “We’ll see.” She smiled and went into the kitchen to fix lunch.
That’s what Mom had said last year when Molly had had a part in the Book of Mormon program. But they hadn’t gone.
Molly almost crumpled up her piece of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. Then she remembered last year when she had told the story of Nephi building the ship. Nephi had believed that the Lord would help him, and he’d prayed for guidance to build a ship so that he and his family could cross the ocean. Well, that’s what she would do too. Just like Nephi, she would pray for help and the Lord would help her.
Suddenly Molly had a warm, peaceful feeling. She felt that the spirit of the Holy Ghost was with her, just as she had been promised.
As she spent the next three weeks preparing and practicing her talk, she started noticing the many things that her parents did for her and how much they loved her.
Mom fixed her favorite snacks, helped her with science projects, and always rushed to hug her when she came home from school. Dad played soccer and softball with her, and at bedtime he’d tell her the most wonderful stories. It was always a warm, special time for just the two of them. Even though Justin sometimes seemed like a pest, she was happy that he was her brother. They sang funny songs and giggled, read books, and played at the park together.
Finally the day of the program came. Sister Cook picked her up, and she sat in her assigned seat near the pulpit.
When the Primary children sang “I am a Child of God” and “I Lived in Heaven,” Molly felt close to her ward “family.” And she remembered how much Heavenly Father loved her. She had three wonderful families—a heavenly family, a ward family, and an earthly family!
When it was her turn to go to the microphone, Sister Cook gave her an encouraging smile. And when she started her talk, saying, “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family,” Molly was glad that Sister Miller had given her this talk. She didn’t feel hurt or angry anymore about going to church alone. Even though they didn’t come to church with her, she really did have a special earthly family.
Just then the back door to the chapel opened. Molly’s heart began to pound as Mom, Dad, and Justin quietly walked into the chapel and sat on the back row. They smiled at her, and she couldn’t help grinning back. She started her talk over again: “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.” And she knew that it was true.

I recently heard some experiences of families of suicide victims that give hope to others who are suffering. I must point out that individual spiritual experiences of Church members do not determine Church doctrine. Still, these experiences are compatible with the ideas we have been discussing. The first experience deals with a young woman whose father took his life when she was five years old. The father was not a member of the Church, nor was the daughter until many years later.
“As I was growing up,” she says, “I had the subtle feeling that there was something my father very much wanted me to do for him. I had been taught in my church that he had murdered himself and was in hell. But it seemed to me that even though he had been wrong to kill himself, he had thought he was doing the family a favor. (He was an alcoholic who couldn’t get rid of the habit.) I began to search the Bible to see what might have happened to him. As time went by, I came to know that he had somehow suffered through his problems—and that now he needed me to do something for him. I kept thinking, ‘But what can you do for someone who is already dead?’ And the answer would come, ‘Someday, if you keep searching, you will know.’
“Eventually I was baptized into the Church. When I first heard of baptism for the dead, I was overwhelmed. Now I knew what my father wanted me to do! I did the necessary work and sent his name to the Idaho Falls Temple, where I had the privilege of seeing a brother baptized by proxy for my father. His endowment work was done the same month. I have a strong feeling that he has accepted both ordinances and is greatly blessed by it.”

The first nutcrackers were made over 250 years ago. A favorite story with German children about how this kind of nutcracker came about goes like this:
There once lived a very rich farmer who had no friends because he would not share anything. He would not even share his nuts and fruits with friends at Christmastime, which is a German tradition.
The rich farmer was also very lazy. He did not like to crack his own nuts because he thought it was too much work. Once, when his laziness was stronger than his miserliness, he offered a reward to anyone who could find an easy way to crack nuts. His neighbors made all sorts of gadgets, but the rich farmer did not like any of them.
One day a puppet maker took his invention to the farmer. The puppet maker had carved a wooden puppet that was painted to look like a local miner in dress uniform. The puppet’s mouth opened and shut, and it was strong enough to crack nuts easily.
The rich farmer fell in love with this nutcracker. His love for the little wooden puppet changed his life. He started sharing his nuts and all his riches with his neighbors, and he was soon loved by everyone.

Uncle Chadwick turned from the window and sat down behind his desk. He propped his feet up and looked at us a long moment, his deep-set eyes shining with warm concern and quiet, tender affection. “It’s supposed to be a true story I don’t think you’ve ever heard before. It’s about one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s sons, Joseph III. It happened in Nauvoo, in the early 1840s before the Prophet’s martyrdom at Carthage Jail in 1844.
“Joseph and some of the Brethren, including John Taylor and other apostles, were having a meeting at the Prophet’s home. A man by the name of Loren Walker—a member of the Church who lodged with the Prophet and his family for a time and who became a close and trusted friend—had on that occasion cleaned Joseph’s firearms and some of his clothes. He put the clothes into the wardrobe but, rather than disturb the Prophet during the meeting, put Joseph’s guns on the bed, thinking that Joseph would put them where they belonged later on.
“Now I want you children to know that the only reason the Prophet Joseph carried a gun was that the persecution he endured was sometimes so intense that he was forced to arm himself for his own safety.
“Anyway,” Uncle Chadwick continued, “the Prophet’s son Joseph went into that room to take a nap. The sound of the voices in the adjoining room kept him awake, and he found himself attracted to the pistols. Seeing that he was unobserved because of the bed’s canopy, young Joseph picked up one of the pistols. Now, he didn’t think for a minute that it was loaded or that he could possibly fire it, but the thought playfully passed through his mind that if it was loaded and he did fire it, he was sure he could hit a certain spot on the canopy.”
Suddenly Uncle Chadwick banged the flat of his hand on his desk, and we all jumped. “BANG! went the pistol,” he yelled.
“Well,” he went on, “the sound of the discharge alarmed the Prophet and the others who were holding council. Thinking the gunshot had come from outside the house and that someone was coming to attack the Prophet, they all dashed outside to look around. When they didn’t see anyone, they were puzzled. Then Brother Walker suddenly remembered where he’d left the pistols. Fearing the worst, they ran back into the house and into the bedroom.”
Uncle Chadwick pulled out a rumpled handkerchief, blew his nose, then stuffed the cloth carefully back into his back pocket. He took off his spectacles and held them up to the light as if to examine an imaginary smudge, all the while listening to the bench creak as we fidgeted. Finally, when he was sure we had fretted long enough about the worst that could have happened to young Joseph, he propped his eyeglasses back on his nose, gave us a sideways look, and continued: “Well, there lay young Joseph, as white as a just-scrubbed sheet. The pistol was at his side, and smoke was filling the canopy. He was unharmed, except that when the pistol had recoiled, it had fallen from his hand and struck him soundly on the head.
“At first there was some thought on the Prophet Joseph’s part to scold both Brother Walker, for having left the weapons there, and his son Joseph, for having played with them. But after the scare was over, there was general laughter—at the boy’s expense. The dust from the canopy, the damaged ceiling plaster that covered young Joseph, and the fast-swelling bump on his head were about all the ‘fun’ he had from the incident. However, it was a good lesson for everyone, and after that, firearms were carefully kept away from children.”

When everybody assembled for the awards ceremony at this year’s meet, the young people really outdid themselves in expressing their love and friendship to each other. It all started when one young woman went forward to accept her medal and her brother shouted, “She’s my sister!” Not to be outdone, a friend of the next award winner stood and yelled, “He’s my friend!” Soon entire ward teams were standing for their team members, chanting “He’s our brother” or “She’s our friend.” Their pride in each other was unmistakable.

In the summer after I graduated from high school, I left for China to teach English to young children in a boarding school. It was the first time I would be so far away from home.
As I first started teaching, all I could think about was missing my family. I was ready to leave my current adventure and go back to my comfort zone. Then, through prayer and scripture study, I started to gain a deeper appreciation for the gospel. I became more grateful for my family and for the Lord’s blessings in my life. I began to realize how much Heavenly Father loved me.
Suddenly my problems weren’t as big. I didn’t miss my family as much, and I wanted more than ever to see the students as Christ sees them. I began to realize what Christ said about children being pure of heart. They loved me, even with all my faults.
As I loved them with all of my heart, teaching became a little easier. I began to see all of their talents and wonderful qualities. My patience level was higher. For the first time I realized what they and I must mean to my Heavenly Father. I had more love for my students than I had even thought possible. I gained a deeper love for my family and all those around me. Loving the students made it easy to understand what they needed me to teach them, and my love for them made me a better person.

Thank you for the article “No Laughing Matter” (June 1994). I have had a very similar incident happen to me at school when a girl from my gym class saw me reading the Book of Mormon before school. She told a number of her friends and they all bowed to me in class and taunted me. It made me ashamed until, just like the girl in the story, I realized that it didn’t really matter as long as I was doing what was right. Thanks for the reassurance.
Debbie WilliamsSalem, Oregon

It’s tough making the right choices when you’re 15 years old. But when your decisions affect the lives of hundreds of thousands of people, the pressure gets a little greater. That was the situation facing Amy Arreátegui Pozo when she was selected from 123 students to be the mayor of Trujillo, Peru, the third largest city in the country. Mayor for a day, that is.
When Amy was a Mia Maid in the Mousserat Ward, Trujillo Perú Laureles Stake, she attended a secondary school called the Academy of Engineering. “One of my goals,” says Amy, “was to become the student mayor [like a student-body president] from this school, and I did. That was my dream. My next goal was to win the ‘Mayor for a Day’ contest, and here I am. I finally made it. What helped me win was my confidence in myself.”
Of course, showing that she had a lot of great ideas about improving schools and neighborhoods in the city also helped. Coming up with these ideas for the contest was a lot of work, but deciding which ones to include was pretty easy. To decide, Amy used a method she’s come to depend on—a method that has given her the confidence she talks about. It’s the process of asking and receiving answers through prayer.
“Always go to Heavenly Father when you’re making a decision, and you will always make the right choice,” Amy says. That’s one reason she could handle the responsibility so well when the city of Trujillo issued the resolution recognizing her as “mayor for a day.” The city council acted to accept her activities during her 24 hours as mayor. All contracts, decisions, and authorizations would be legally binding.
Amy arrived at the city hall at 7:30 a.m., even before Mayor José Murgia Zannier, Trujillo’s mayor for more than 10 years. After being officially installed in her post, she met with Mayor Murgia to go over the day’s schedule and coordinate some details. Thus began her busy day as mayor.
In the mayor’s official vehicle, Amy made a visit to inspect a park where the city plans to build a sports and recreation center. She then visited a public school, where she met with the principal and surveyed the progress on the construction of two classrooms.
Back at city hall, Amy met with an official from the public defenders office and with the director of the San José Children’s Home. Amy quickly decided to send a group of workers to the children’s home to make some needed repairs. She also received visits from several other schools seeking funding.
At a press conference, Amy launched her teen leadership program, titled “A Challenge for the Future.” Since her program started, teen leaders from more than 100 schools in the city have met monthly with government officials to discuss the needs of education.
Then Amy presided over the city council meeting, opening the session and calling roll. She also planted a tree at the opening of a newly renovated city park and listened to the requests of neighbors living in the area. That evening, she attended a cultural event in one of the town plazas.
It was a busy day for Amy, a young woman one of the local newspapers described as “outstanding in intellect, sobriety, eloquence, and leadership abilities, but most of all in her great goals and objectives.”
The experience Amy had while serving as mayor for a day opened her eyes to the many needs within her community. One of those needs—education—was already a primary focus of Amy’s plans and programs. But Amy realizes that while school is important, there are other aspects of our lives that should take precedence over a secular education.
“I feel that here in Trujillo, which is considered the culture capital of Peru, many put the Church aside and put more focus on their studies,” Amy says. “There are many youth within the Church who don’t go on missions so they can continue with their schooling at the university or who stop going to institute classes and Church meetings.”
So while Amy studies hard in school and plans to become a psychologist, she also works hard in her calling as a Sunday School teacher and on her personal spiritual progression. She understands that there is a time for everything: a time for study, a time for church, and a time for friends, family, and fun.
It’s a question of perspective and priority. Amy explains: “The prophet wants the youth to get as much schooling as possible, and the Lord will always prepare the way for us to do it, so we don’t have to leave the Church to do something that is secular. Even though it’s important to get an education, it’s more important to do what our Heavenly Father commands.”
The youth in Peru face many of the same challenges youth face all over the world. The temptations to follow the ways of the world call loudly: pornography, immorality, and dishonesty.
“Fashion and all the trends like music are also a problem because most of us are surrounded by nonmembers, so at times it’s easy to be led by our peers and not our principles,” Amy says. She warns that we should not give in to pressure from those who would have us relax our standards. “Another problem,” she says, “is that when a young person joins the Church, he or she sometimes loses friends.”
Amy feels blessed that she has found friends and strength among her family, ward members, and fellow seminary students. They have been there to support and encourage her to follow the Lord.
Now that Amy has had a taste of what it’s like to be mayor of Trujillo, what are her plans for the future? “I will start out as a student mayor,” Amy explains, “and then perhaps become mayor of a local unit, and then mayor of a district, and then become the first woman president of Peru.”
Amy says that many young people lack the confidence to set goals and reach them because they don’t understand why they’re here on earth and what they should do in their lives. By building her life around the gospel, Amy has gained the confidence to succeed in whatever she righteously desires.
“I’ve grown closer to my Heavenly Father by praying and asking for His confirmation in whatever decision I have to make,” she says. “It is very special for me to feel His Spirit and know He approves of my choices. By having His approval, I feel that things will always, always turn out well.”

I am very grateful to be able to read the New Era. I went to pick up my mail at the mission home today and found out that there wasn’t any mail for me. It’s been over a month since I have had a letter from home, but I was happy to see that my March New Era had arrived. I started reading it while walking down the street, and I walked into a wire that anchored a telephone pole! I read the magazine that day, and before nighttime I had read it from cover to cover. I always used to skip a few articles that didn’t seem interesting, but this time I read every article, and they were all interesting.
Elder Joseph Richard Wright, Jr.Philippines Manila Mission

How might such feelings of hunger apply to the gospel? How hungry are we to live the gospel? Whenever I hear the phrase “hunger and thirst after righteousness,” I recall an experience with BYU students in Mexico some years ago. Students were assigned to wards and branches in several towns. One day I accompanied two students on their visits to a village to teach Relief Society sisters in their homes. The bus dropped us off by the side of the highway, and we headed up the hot, dusty path to the village. We walked uphill for at least an hour, spent several hours in the village, then walked back to the highway to catch the bus.

We each carried a canteen of water with us, but for some reason I didn’t have enough. I don’t remember the name of the village or what we taught that day, but I still remember how desperately thirsty I was by the time we got to town. How often do I—do we—hunger and thirst after righteousness? How grateful are we when we have been spiritually fed?

Moving from a small high school in a small town to a big one in a faraway place is hard enough. But it’s especially rough if your name is Ferger Brown. Some people with different names shorten them, or use a nickname. There is nothing you can do, however, with Ferger. Shortening it doesn’t help, and the only nicknames I ever received were worse than Ferger.
In every class that first day of school my junior year, I endured the snapping of other students’ heads in unison when I answered “Here” in my deep bass voice to each teacher’s incredulous question, “Ferger Brown?” Had I been six feet and 190 pounds with the face of a movie star, I suppose any name might have been considered dashing. As it was, at five-feet-four, with a hook nose; long, skinny face; and glasses, I looked—as one of my friends back home said—”just like my name.” Added to that, I had a voice lower than sea level. For some reason, when I turned 13, my voice went bottom fishing and never came up.
As I walked out of my second-period class, a girl with blond hair walked up and said, “Hi, I’m Stephanie Hays. You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her freckled nose crinkled when she smiled, and I thought things may not be so bad around here after all.
“Yeah,” I answered, returning the smile. “We just moved here from Steamsprings, Illinois.”
“Welcome to Hillsdale High,” she said.
I was ready to start strolling down the hall with this beauty when a character who looked like he had been on Mr. America vitamins since the third grade walked up to us. He was muscular and at least six-five.
“This guy bothering you, Steph?” he asked.
“No, he’s new here. I was just introducing myself.”
Brute Force—that’s what I immediately named him—looked down at me from on high.
I stuck out my hand and said, “I’m Ferger …”
“I know what your name is,” he said, cutting me off. “I heard the teacher.” He looked down at my hand but didn’t take it. Then he looked up again. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone forgetting that name, or that voice.” He grinned, looked at my hand once again, then said, “Come on, Steph. Or do you want to hear Frogger croak again?”
“The name’s Ferger!” I boomed, aware that my basso profundo voice had the power of intimidation—unless, of course, the person I was trying to intimidate happened to be looking at me.
Brute Force and Stephanie walked out of the room. I started to leave when I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. I turned to see a kid with glasses, red hair, four well-placed pimples, and a big grin. “That’s Brandon Wallerstadt—heaven’s gift to this school and every girl here. Don’t worry about him. I’m Jason Carr. Welcome.”
Jason, it turned out, was a great find. He was a straight-A student who seemed to know everyone at school. For some reason, he took me under his wing. He never even teased me about my name.
Brute Force Wallerstadt did, though. Every time he saw me, he made a snide remark or said something like, “Croak for us, Frogger.”
It was about midterm when Jason started inviting me to go to church with him. I didn’t know much about churches, but I figured if Jason liked this place it must be pretty good. And it was. Three hours of church every Sunday, though, nearly wiped me out. But I kept hearing this stuff about a Savior, about priesthood, about the Book of Mormon, about testimonies. It was fascinating. We talked about angels, visions, gold plates, premortal life, three kingdoms. I’d come home every week with some new idea that spun around in my head for days.
My life with Brute Force was another matter. That is until I found out we had one thing in common: golf. With spring lurking around the corner, I told Jason I was thinking about trying out for the golf team. He rubbed his hand through his red hair and said, “Did you know Brandon Wallerstadt led the team last year as a sophomore?”
I hadn’t known until then, but that was when a plan hatched deep within my devious soul. I had been toying with the idea of asking Stephanie Hays to the junior-senior prom. Despite Brute Force Wallerstadt’s attempts to brand her his exclusive territory, we had become friends. It seemed she didn’t want to be tied to just one guy. To get free sailing for the prom, though, I needed to get Wallerstadt completely out of the way. And I was sure I could do it.
You see, I was born thinking the ninth green of the Steamsprings Municipal Golf Course—right out our back door—was our yard, and that golf balls were teething rings. My dad gave me my first set of golf clubs when I was two. My sophomore year I led the Steamsprings golf team and carried a four handicap. Before I tipped my hand at the varsity tryouts, I thought I might challenge Wallerstadt to a match for the rights to ask Stephanie to the prom.
I sat down in the lunch room at the table with Brandon and his friends and made him the proposition. The winner gets to invite Stephanie to the prom. Brute Force looked at me and laughed. “You know how to play?” he asked.
“I played for my high school last year,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
A glint came into his eye. “Frogger, you’re on. Friday after school we’ll play at my dad’s club. There are two lakes there, so if you get tired of golf, you can jump in with the other frogs and croak away.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and wondered if my knuckles could reach across the table to his perfect rows of white teeth.
I had asked Jason to be my caddie. That meant he’d drive the cart carrying my clubs and cheer me on. We arrived at the Hillsdale Country Club in my old Chevy. I wore blue and orange plaid shorts and a green and white striped shirt. I’ve always thought ugly distracted opponents.
Brandon, of course, drove up in his red convertible dressed in $400 worth of clothes. His clubs and balls were some of the finest money could buy. One of his buddies was there to caddie for him.
Brute’s father came out from the clubhouse to the tee, looked at me like I was an alien, and said, “Son, I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
For the first time I saw Brandon Wallerstadt flinch. “I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”
“If you don’t come in at 74 or better today, you’ll play two rounds on Sunday. Understand?” his dad said.
Brute suddenly didn’t look so brutish. Sheepishly he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Dad.”
We flipped a coin and Wallerstadt won. He had honors. He teed his ball and nailed a high draw down the right side of the fairway. I had aptly named him. Brute must have hit the ball 315 yards. But it wasn’t a smart play. It meant he had to drop a delicate wedge shot over the bunker, and in front of another if he wanted a chance at birdie. Since this was a short par-four, I took out my two-wood and drove my ball down the left side of the fairway.
My second shot put me within eight feet of the cup. Brute dumped his ball in the front trap, but a brilliant shot out of the sand put him three feet from the cup. My putt for birdie rimmed out, he sank his, and we were both even-par after the first hole.
We played even until the par-five ninth hole. Again, Brute made the mistake of driving too far. His ball rolled into a fairway bunker. By the time he finished, he was one-over and I was one-under. Quite a spectacular nine for me, I thought. And a pretty darn good one for him, too. He even complimented me on a couple of my shots.
Brute’s father was waiting for him as we headed for the tenth tee. I didn’t stand too close, but when Brute told him his score you didn’t need spy gear to hear he was upset.
On the back nine, the lead seesawed until we reached the 17th tee. We were even with two holes to go. I had the honors on the little par-three. I took my seven-iron and dropped the ball within three feet of the flag. Brute overhit his shot and it rolled off the back of the green. He chipped up, but his putt slid off to the right. My birdie to his bogey put me two-up going into the last hole.
“You’ve got him,” Jason hooted as we rode to the final tee. I looked at Brute. I’d expected him to throw clubs after bad shots. He hadn’t. He didn’t make too many bad shots, either. Actually, he was somewhat of a gentleman on the course. But now I could see he was just plain despondent.
Ready to finish him off, I teed my ball, looked over at Brute, and said, “Brandon, you don’t have to answer this, but what happens if I beat you?”
“You get to ask Stephanie to the prom,” he snapped.
“No,” I said. “I mean between you and your father?”
“He’ll yell at me for not concentrating and insist I spend an hour on the driving range before I go home. But you haven’t won yet. Let’s go,” he said, looking down the fairway.
I drew back my club and hit a perfectly placed drive 250 yards down the middle of the fairway. Brandon, trying too hard, pulled his shot to the left. Still, it went about 290 yards.
I laid out my second shot, but it faded to the right. Not what I wanted, but still okay.
Brute tried to hook his second shot around a bunch of trees, but the ball flew straight, landing near mine. It looked like we were five yards apart and about 80 yards from the green. Only an absolute disaster would keep me from winning now.
As I surveyed my shot, there was Brandon’s father casting a huge shadow behind the 18th green. He stood there with his legs spread and arms folded across his chest as he watched.
“Brandon, do you like golf?” I asked.
“I hate it,” he said bitterly.
“You’re very good,” I said. “Why do you hate it?”
“Him,” Brandon said, nodding toward his father. “He wants me to be a golf pro. It’s his dream and I can’t say no. All I have to do is play golf and he gives me anything money can buy. Would you walk away from that?”
“Let’s get this over with, Ferger,” he said. I was stunned. It may have been the first time he didn’t call me Frog or Frogger.
Looking at Brute, I remembered what Jason’s Sunday School teacher had said once: “It was never the Lord’s plan to make yourself taller by standing on someone else’s sore head.”
I took a practice swing. “If you par out, you’ll have a 74 and you won’t have to play on Sunday, will you?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. Even if I birdie this and finish with a 73, if you beat me I’ll get extra duty.” Then he looked me square in the eye. “Ferger, I underestimated you. You’re a fine golfer and good guy.”
“I underestimated you, too, Brandon,” I said. And I had. He was an excellent golfer, and somewhere under that jerk veneer, there seemed to be a nice guy lurking. Then I spoke in my most solemn, adult voice. If you were to win this round, would you go somewhere with Jason and me on Sunday?”
“Where?”
“It’s kind of a different place, but I think you could use it.”
“Okay, but I’m not worried. You’d have to shank this ball to lose.”
Which I did. And Brute beat me by one stroke, finishing with a 74 to my 75.
As Jason and I left the course, Brandon was walking with his dad, who was slapping him on the back. I called to him, “Remember, Jason and I will be by at ten Sunday morning to pick you up.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What are we doing with Wallerstadt on Sunday?” Jason asked.
Then he looked at me like I was crazy when I told him we were taking Brute Force to church with us.
It’s now two years later, and Brandon Wallerstadt—former jerk, now close friend—and I will be going on our missions in two weeks. I’m going to California and he’s been called to England. Jason will leave for Australia two weeks after that. I would have never supposed a shanked golf shot could have put two guys like Brandon and me together. Brandon’s dad wasn’t happy when he first told him he wanted to join the Mormon church and perhaps go on a mission. His dad still thinks Brandon has thrown away a great career, but he’s accepted his son’s decision.
Oh, about the prom that year. That Sunday when we picked up Brandon, he said I could ask Stephanie to the prom if I wanted to. So I did. But someone had told her about our golf game for the right to ask her and she got mad and wouldn’t speak to either one of us for months. Eventually she forgave us, and even came to both of our missionary farewells. Before we leave, Brandon and I are going over to her house to give her a Book of Mormon. The problem is, we’re having trouble trying to decide who should give it to her.
Perhaps we should play golf.