Gospel Story Finder

When I was nine, I really liked and respected my coach, Coach Hashem. However, I wanted to play on the same team as a school friend, so I tried out for a different team. This team was really competitive, and I knew that if I made it, I would be expected to be very dedicated and play hard. A lot of boys wanted to be on this team, but I was fortunate to make it through several cuts.
The day of the final tryouts came. I played my hardest, and I felt good about it. Afterward, the coach approached my mom and me and said that he would really like me on the team. I was excited. But then he asked, “Can you play on Sundays? I have to be able to field a team for tournaments, and that means that sometimes there will be Sunday play.”
My mom let me reply to the question.
“No, sir, I don’t play on Sundays.” I knew that was the right answer, but it probably meant I wouldn’t get to be on this team.
That night, the call telling me that I was chosen for the team never came. I was very disappointed.
Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the football field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.
I am now a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. I still play competition football and still choose not to play on Sunday. It has not been a problem for me or for the teams I have played on. I believe in honoring the Sabbath day and keeping it holy. For me this means not playing sports on Sunday.

I first saw Karen Aydlotte at a multi-stake fireside at BYU. She was the speaker. She was smiling and joking and telling us that there was a good chance she might not live much longer, that she had cancer, an often incurable form of it.
Several weeks later I met Karen through a mutual friend. She was very open with her feelings. We talked a good deal about life and death. For me, for most of us, it is easy to put the reality of death into what Shakespeare aptly phrased as “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” For Karen death was hard reality. She had to reconcile living with dying.

Emily Partridge, daughter of the first bishop of the Church in this dispensation, remembered leaving their comfortable home in Painesville, Ohio, to move to Jackson County, Missouri, in 1831 when she was just seven years old.3 Not long after, her family was driven from their home by the mob and had to relocate in Clay County. She described how they eventually found an “old log cabin that had been used for a stable. … There was one large room, and a leanto, but that was not of much use, as the floor was nearly all torn up, and the rats and rattlesnakes were too thick for comfort. There was a large fireplace in the one habitable room, and blankets were hung up a few feet back from the fire and the two families, fifteen or sixteen in number, were gathered inside of those blankets to keep from freezing for the weather was extremely cold, so cold that the ink would freeze in the pen as father sat writing close to the fire.”4

The family later moved to Illinois. Emily summarized their experience: “Times were hard and we were very destitute, having been robbed and driven from our homes and possessions so many times, and having had much sickness.”5

Heavy clouds blew across the New Mexico sky as apprentice jockey David Shepherd, 18, perched atop his horse Dirt Farmer and waited for the starter to press the button. He ignored the sounds of the 24,000 spectators in the grandstand on the west side of the track. He had only one thing in mind—to beat 11 other riders to the finish line less than three-fourths of a mile away. Because Thoroughbreds run at 40 miles-per-hour, the race would last scarcely longer than one minute.
The clock showed that 12 minutes remained before David’s race. Jim Wilson pushed a button to alert jockeys still in the jockey room. “Jockeys,” he said, and the riders entered the paddock. David walked over to Dirt Farmer who was quietly waiting with Mr. Phelan. The owner and David discussed the race strategy. “Hold him, hold him, hold him,” he told David. “Leave him something for the last. Then, if you can move up on the inside. do it.”
At a signal from the paddock judge, Tom Phelan gave David a leg up on the chestnut gelding. David thrust his toes through the irons strapped high up on the side of Dirt Farmer. His upper legs now horizontal, he adjusted the reins as Mr. Phelan led them out of the paddock and up to the race course.
Several of the horses had to be led along the track by another rider to ensure that they remained under control until the race started. Although David’s mount had been raced for several years, he had not lost a quiet disposition. David needed no other help. The outrider, mounted western, escorted the 12 horses in front of the stands before taking them toward the starting gate on the other side of the track.
The horses moved to the starting gate. The truck that pulled the gate was started up. Handlers took the racers by the bridle one at a time and ran them into the narrow enclosures. Another person expertly closed the back of the gate, confining the nervous animals until the starter would press his button and the gates would spring open. David’s chestnut was placed in the fifth position from the rail. The two peered through the grillwork, waiting for the race to begin.
Veteran starter Dean Turpitt, standing a few feet to one side and in front of the gate, watched for a time when all 12 horses were still. It came. He hit the button. Twelve horses jumped out of the gate almost simultaneously. Within a half-dozen strides Dirt Farmer was carrying his rider at 40 miles an hour. “You can’t get that kind of acceleration with a car or a motorcycle. You just have to be able to move with the horse or you’ll never make it.”
The truck pulled the gate off the track; its wheel marks were raked over by two of the workers.
The field was strung out slightly, and announcer Bob Dudich gave the placings over the loudspeaker. Dirt Farmer was seventh. With the race just 5 1/2 furlongs (eight furlongs to the mile), the gate had been placed on the far side of the field because the finish line is never moved. Without binoculars it was hard to discern the different riders, despite their varied colors.
“Hold him, hold him, hold him,” the trainer had said, and David held Dirt Farmer. Muddy sand flung up by the leading horses coated David’s face and goggles. The horses neared the north end of the track and began rounding the curve.
“Usually horses will pull away from the rail on a turn. That’s when you must be ready to move up on the inside.” There was only one curve in this race. David moved.
The spectators rose to their feet as the horses approached. The cheering reached a crescendo seldom heard even at a homecoming football game. Several horses were still ahead of David’s gelding.
“You’ve got to run the horse straight; keep him from wandering over the track, or you’ll lose strides.” Those ahead had continued to pull slightly away from the rail at the curve because of centrifugal force. There was enough room for Dirt Farmer to continue his drive up the rail. David urged him on even faster.
“You have to be willing to take chances, but know when to take them.” Should one of the leading horses move into Dirt Farmer’s path and they tangle, then Dirt Farmer would go down or crash into the rail. “It’s always the horse behind that trips and falls.” David continued to move up the rail safely.
“Dave’s only thinking one thing when he’s out there, and that’s to win.
“This is a claiming race. Several have indicated they want to buy my horse—if he does well in this race. If he wins, he’s sold for sure.”
Dirt Farmer continued to gain on the last horse ahead of him while the announcer swiftly told the positions for the last time. David began to tire, and his breath was ragged. “When you really race, it’s as though you’re running the distance yourself. It is just like running a mile on foot.”
The terrific strain was telling on Dirt Farmer, also. “It takes 90 minutes to cool a horse off after a race, to get his heartbeat and respiration down to what it should be before we can put him in a stall. Dirt Farmer hasn’t an ounce of fat on him; he’s just like his rider. Still, it will take 90 minutes.”
Running his athletic best under David’s urging, Dirt Farmer burst across the finish line in front.
“And the winner is Dirt Farmer!” Bob Dudich shouted to a crowd gone wild.
Elsewhere the race stewards watched the running on video tape, searching for any irregularities before declaring the race official. (A horse the day before had been disqualified because of a jockey’s mistake.) After several reruns, they concluded there were no obvious problems. The race was declared official.
By this time Dirt Farmer and the other horses had slowed down and were trotting back to the finish line where they would be unsaddled and taken off the track. David and Dirt Farmer moved into the winner’s circle for the official photograph. The crowd cheered.
“David did just exactly as I told him,” Tom Phelan commented as he and his wife joined them in the circle.
For David it was one of the last races of the meet. Tomorrow he and his agent would be on their way to Detroit where David would continue to ride and to build up his mission fund.
Dirt Farmer was unsaddled and led away. After David’s weight was checked, his valet took the saddle and cinch. David walked along the track back to the jockey’s room to await another horse, the next start, and a new race.

Being able to fast on the first Sunday of every month was the unspoken “rite of passage” in my family. The children in my home had to somehow convince my parents of their maturity before Mom and Dad would pass on the privilege and honor of partaking of the spiritual feast that fasting provides.
I’d been looking forward to this honor for months. I had finally convinced my parents that I was ready to make that sacrifice along with all the other mature members of my family. I didn’t know that going without food would teach me about the bread and milk of living.
When that long-anticipated fast day came, I watched my younger sisters hawklike while they gobbled up their toast, eggs, and milk. In my sanctimonious sanctuary on the couch, as I watched each one finish her last bite, I began to seriously wonder why I had begged for this privilege. That day, after long hours in church, I kept looking at the clock. Morning grew into afternoon, and I was still holding firm to my commitment. Then I remembered that I had half a roll of Life Savers in my coat pocket. I figured that I could sneak them out and carry them down to the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. If I flushed the toilet while I rattled the paper, nobody would be able to hear me eating the candy.
I grabbed the Life Savers from my coat pocket, hid them in my dress pocket, and walked downstairs to the bathroom. Then I closed the door, flushed the toilet, and ripped open the paper. Sitting down on the heat vent to eat them, I stared at the cherry Life Saver between my thumb and index finger, about three inches from my mouth. Then the guilt hit. I took the candies and flushed them down the toilet, then walked outside the house and waited.
When Mom called from the house, I slid into my place at the table. My mother and father smiled at me and patted me on the arm. I looked at the table, which held a loaf of sliced bread, a gallon pitcher of chilled milk, and slices of cheese stacked on a china plate. Every Sunday night our family had bread and milk for supper. We would take a slice of bread and break it into small pieces in a bowl. Then we would pour milk over the pieces and eat the mixture with a spoon.
As I took my slice of bread and slowly broke it into the bowl, I could feel the smooth, soft texture of the bread center and the hard, shiny, dark-brown crust. I noticed the moisture from the chilled milk running down the glass, and as I poured the milk into the bowl, it made a frothy top.
It was a simple meal, an ordinary meal, a meal that I had had every Sunday night for as long as I could remember. But it tasted different that night. I distinctly remember the yeasty smell of the bread and the way the cool milk felt inside my mouth. I’ve never had a meal quite like it since.
That meal started to teach me about the bread and milk of living. It started to teach me about the richness of ordinary things. I found that really enjoying life could be as simple as being able to savor an ordinary meal.
Now, every time I fast, I think about the true bread of life, and the lesson I learned during my “rite of passage.”

Not many of us have the chance to crack open a snack with a machete on a regular basis. Or eat bananas right off the tree. Or swim and fish in the warm ocean just down the road.
Life in Samoa moves at its own pace and rhythm. It’s a stunningly beautiful and peaceful place to live. (Well, peaceful so long as you’re not falling out of a mango tree, as you’ll learn in a bit.)
Photograph from Getty Images
Sefa L., 19, and his younger brother Don L., 15, have lived in Samoa their whole lives. They’ve grown up learning to live off the land, and they love where they live.
But their love for each other is what keeps them strong. Samoans often refer to “the Samoan way,” which can be summed up in four simple words: they help each other.
For Don and Sefa’s family, the fridge is never empty. That’s because there’s no fridge in the first place. Their meals come fresh from the land, as well as from selling or trading that food for other supplies.
On their land, they have all the food they’ll ever need. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Mealtime requires serious work.
“I like to do my duties to help my family,” Don says. And he’s not talking about loading and unloading the dishwasher. He’s got some impressive duties! Using nothing but a machete and a metal spike in the ground, Sefa and Don de-husk and crack open coconuts, hollowing them out to eat as well as feed to pigs. They gather firewood so that the family can cook.
They go fishing. They make banana chips. They climb tall trees without ladders to gather fruit. On this last point, things can sometimes get a bit dicey.
“I once fell out of a mango tree and hit my head,” Sefa said. “I was sick and in the hospital a long time. I prayed for a fast recovery, and God gave me back my strength.”
Does that incident with the mango tree keep Sefa from climbing these days? He actually laughs at this particular question. “No!” he says emphatically. It’s sort of like asking Sefa if he still breathes air. And his younger brother is right there with him. “I climb all the trees too,” he adds.

In 1995 I was invited to give a welcome and some opening remarks at a scientific seminar in Salt Lake City on the subject of child nutrition. Ninety-six scientists from 24 countries attended. As I surveyed the audience during my remarks, I was impressed by the many nations represented, as evidenced by their dress, skin color, language, and other distinguishing features.
Three or four months later I attended a stake conference on the East Coast of the United States. As I sat on the stand in preparation for the priesthood leadership session, an African man entered the chapel and sat down by the aisle. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I might have seen him. I leaned over and asked the stake president who the man was. The stake president answered, “Oh, he is not a member of the Church. He is a visiting professor from Africa teaching at a prestigious university in the area. A few months ago he attended some kind of scientific seminar in Salt Lake City. He picked up a pamphlet about the Church, which led him to read everything he could find about the Church. He now attends every meeting possible.” Half in jest, the stake president then said, “I would be surprised if he were not attending Relief Society meetings.”
After the priesthood leadership meeting, I reintroduced myself to the visiting professor. He affirmed his excitement for this newly discovered source of truth. He explained that his family, still in Africa, was studying with the missionaries and would be joining him in America in about four weeks, at which time they would all be baptized together.
At the conclusion of the Saturday evening adult session, this man came rushing to the podium and, thumping his chest, excitedly declared, “My heart is throbbing just like this. I can hardly contain it in my body. I don’t know if I can wait the four weeks for my family to be baptized.” I suggested he ought to slow down his heart and wait for his wife and children so all could be baptized together.
When Elijah was fleeing for his life from the wicked Phoenician princess Jezebel, the Lord directed him to a high mountain, where he had a most unusual experience. As Elijah stood upon the mount before the Lord, he felt “a great and strong wind … ; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice” (1 Kings 19:11–12).
I am occasionally asked by those not of our faith why it is that our Church grows so rapidly, in both membership and activity, while other churches are reportedly declining in both. The answer to that question is simply a still, small voice and then a throbbing heart. In this busy, tumultuous, and noisy world, it is not like a wind, it is not like a fire, it is not like an earthquake; but it is a still, small, but a very discernible voice, and it causes a throbbing heart. It is a quiet burning within that this is the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, with all of its doctrine, priesthood, and covenants that had been lost through the many centuries of darkness and confusion. Yes, it is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that testifies of the miracle of the Restoration.
It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates millions of members to emulate the life of Jesus in word, deed, and service. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates thousands of retired couples to serve missions, usually for 18 months or longer. They put aside the comforts of life to go into the world, serving others at their own expense and at what some would consider substantial sacrifice, often serving in remote parts of the world where a hot shower and a comfortable bed are luxuries that linger only in their memories.
It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that causes hundreds of thousands of young men and women to leave promising professions, put off their education (sometimes leaving athletic and other scholarships), or delay romances to serve the Lord at their own expense to declare the Restoration of the gospel. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that gives our young people the desire and courage to stand for purity, honesty, and principle, even at the expense of sometimes being ridiculed and rejected. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates one to joyfully keep God’s commandments and share the burdens of those less fortunate. Yes, there is power in a still, small voice and a throbbing heart.
Alma had his way of asking about the spiritual condition of our hearts. He asks, “Have ye spiritually been born of God?” And then: “Have ye received his image in your countenances? Have ye experienced this mighty change in your hearts?” (Alma 5:14; emphasis added). In other words, is your heart throbbing with a testimony of Jesus Christ?
May I tell you just three things of many that cause my heart to throb? First, my heart throbs with the knowledge that Jesus Christ is my personal Savior and that His love for me was sufficient that He would suffer unimaginable pain and even death. My heart throbs when, in the solitude of my deep thoughts, I realize I can be cleansed, purified, and redeemed through the blood of Jesus Christ. My heart throbs when I contemplate the price that was paid—the suffering incurred to spare me from similar personal suffering for my sins and transgressions.
Second, my heart throbs with the knowledge that a young boy only 14 years of age went into a grove of trees—and from a simple, humble prayer the heavens opened, God and Christ appeared, and angels descended. And thus the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored with all of its priesthood, covenants, and purity of doctrine. My heart throbs when I consider what this boy prophet endured to bring about the fulness of the restored gospel. While heavenly angels were descending, Satan’s angels were also at work. The persecutions began, and like the lives of prophets of old, Joseph’s life culminated in his martyrdom. Throughout all his trials and persecutions, the young prophet remained steadfast and determined.
Because of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I understand more fully the magnitude of Christ’s Atonement. Because of the Prophet Joseph, I better understand the significance of the Garden of Gethsemane—a place of great suffering as Christ assumed our personal suffering not only for our sins but also for our pains, infirmities, trials, and tragedies. I understand the infinite and eternal nature of His great and last sacrifice. I better understand the love our Savior exemplified in His last redeeming act. Because of Joseph Smith, my love and gratitude for the Savior is magnified and my worship more meaningful. Among the many hymns in our hymnbook written by W. W. Phelps is the familiar song with the words “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!” (“Praise to the Man,” Hymns, no. 27). My heart throbs as I sing that song.
Yes, because we sing with enthusiasm and gusto, “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!” we sing about the Savior with even more reverence, emotion, and gratitude with the words “Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me / Enough to die for me! / Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!” (“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 193). My heart throbs because of the enlightenment the Prophet Joseph brought to my life regarding the personal effect of the Atonement of my Savior.
Third, my heart throbs as I study and ponder the sacred scriptures in the Book of Mormon, as it complements the Bible and further testifies of the divinity of Jesus Christ as the Son of God, the Redeemer and Savior of the world. Because of this sacred companion to the Bible, my understanding of Christ’s doctrine is expanded; thus many of the questions left unanswered in the Bible are explained to my full satisfaction. The Book of Mormon is tangible evidence that Joseph is a prophet of God, Christ did in reality appear to him, and the gospel has been restored in its purity and its fulness.
My heart throbs just to contemplate the miracle of the Book of Mormon’s existence—the laborious job of engraving on metal plates, the careful custodianship through the centuries by God’s chosen, and the miraculous translation. Truly it fits the perfect definition of holy writ. Because of God’s majestic love for us, He provided this evidence that we can handle, we can peruse, we can study, and we can even challenge. But, most important, God loves me enough that He will give me and anyone else who sincerely seeks a personal revelation of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon—the tangible evidence of the Restoration and that Joseph Smith was a true prophet.
In speaking of this sacred knowledge, the Book of Mormon prophet Alma testifies:
“Do ye not suppose that I know of these things myself? Behold, I testify unto you that I do know that these things whereof I have spoken are true. And how do ye suppose that I know of their surety?
“Behold, I say unto you they are made known unto me by the Holy Spirit of God. Behold, I have fasted and prayed many days that I might know these things of myself. And now I do know of myself that they are true; for the Lord God hath made them manifest unto me by his Holy Spirit; and this is the spirit of revelation” (Alma 5:45–46).
Like Alma of old, each of us, members and sincere investigators alike, can know with surety that these things are true. It is our great privilege to know. It is more than a privilege; it is our responsibility to know. It is our enormous loss to not know when such a privilege is given. The Lord has said, “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Matthew 7:7). The Book of Mormon prophet Jacob says, “Come with full purpose of heart” (Jacob 6:5). We do not need to rely upon intellect or our physical senses. We study, we pray, and, like Alma of old, we may even fast, and then comes a still, small voice and a throbbing heart. Imagine a personal revelation from God that these things are true. The very thought of it makes my heart throb. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Some years ago I was invited to speak to a group at Harvard University. At that time a member of the Church was campaigning for national office and this created much interest.
Both faculty members and students were to be present. I, of course, hoped that the gospel message would be accepted and that the meeting would end in harmony of views.
As I prayed that this might result, there came to me the strong impression that this prayer would not be answered.
I determined that however preposterous talk of angels and golden plates and restoration might be to them, I would teach the truth with quiet confidence, for I have a testimony of the truth. If some must come from the meeting unsettled and disturbed, it would not be me. Let them be disturbed, if they would.
It was as the Spirit foretold. Some shook their heads in amazement, even cynical amusement, that anyone could believe such things.
But I was at peace. I had taught the truth, and they could accept it or reject it as they pleased.
There is always the hope, and often it is true, that one among them with an open mind may admit one simple thought: “Could it possibly be true?” Combine that thought with sincere prayer, and one more soul enters a private sacred grove to find the answer to “Which of all the churches is true, and which should I join?”

History provides us a vivid example of the importance of the Lord’s servants being in tune with the Spirit. The young Prophet Joseph Smith could not translate when he was angry or upset.

David Whitmer recalled: “One morning when he was getting ready to continue the translation, something went wrong about the house and he was put out about it. Something that Emma, his wife, had done. Oliver and I went up stairs, and Joseph came up soon after to continue the translation, but he could not do anything. He could not translate a single syllable. He went down stairs, out into the orchard and made supplication to the Lord; was gone about an hour—came back to the house, asked Emma’s forgiveness and then came up stairs where we were and the translation went on all right. He could do nothing save he was humble and faithful.”

Third, live truth.
At times the most effective lesson in living truth is found close to the home and dear to the heart.
At the funeral service of a noble General Authority, H. Verlan Andersen (1914–92), a tribute was expressed by a son. It has application wherever we are and whatever we are doing. It is the example of personal experience.
The son of Elder Andersen related that years earlier he had a special school date on a Saturday night. He borrowed from his father the family car. As he obtained the car keys and headed for the door, his father said, “The car will need more gas before tomorrow. Be sure to fill the tank before coming home.”
Elder Andersen’s son then related that the evening activity was wonderful. Friends met, refreshments were served, and all had a good time. In his exuberance, however, he failed to follow his father’s instruction and add fuel to the car’s tank before returning home.
Sunday morning dawned. Elder Andersen discovered the gas gauge showed empty. In the Andersen family the Sabbath day was a day for worship and thanksgiving, not for purchases. Elder Andersen’s son declared, “I saw my father put on his coat, bid us good-bye, and walk the long distance to the chapel that he might attend an early meeting.” Duty called. Truth was not held slave to expedience.
In concluding his funeral message, Elder Andersen’s son said, “No son ever was taught more effectively by his father than I was on that occasion. My father not only knew the truth, but he also lived it.” Live truth.

So when the high school football coach asked Jake to be the water boy for the team, Jake jumped at the chance. “I’ve always liked football. There was never any doubt that I would say yes. I was pretty excited,” says Jake.
Jake is happy to be part of the team, and his positive influence also lifts the spirits of those around him.
Riley Davis plays center on the football team and is one of Jake’s longtime friends. He says the players “were all sophomores coming into the school and didn’t have too many friends. But when Jake joined the team, everybody wanted to be his friend, and then we all started being friends together.”
Another player on the team, Sheen Beard, found Jake to be a tremendous help to him. Injured before the season began, Sheen was unable to play on the team and became a water boy alongside Jake. Jake helped him not only with water and equipment but also by easing the ache of being unable to play. Sheen says, “It turned out well; we worked as a team. He made it fun and had a really good attitude the whole time.”
“Jake has never allowed his problems to affect his life too much,” his mother says. “Of course, he couldn’t do it alone. Joining the football team has made it a lot easier for him and for us, as parents.”
Jake and his parents are especially grateful to Coach Mike Miller for giving Jake such a tremendous opportunity. “This new opportunity gave Jake something to look forward to at a time when he really needed it,” his mom says.
“Jake also receives help from his good friend Riley,” she says. “He has always been the one to go out of his way to do things with him.”

My wife practiced law for over 20 years. As an attorney, she often worked with others who explicitly advocated opposing views. But she learned to disagree without being rude or angry. She might say to opposing counsel, “I can see we are not going to agree on this issue. I like you. I respect your opinion. I hope you can offer me the same courtesy.” Often this allowed for mutual respect and even friendship despite differences.

Talena was unhappy. It was the first day of school, but not for her. Talena was too little to go to school. Mother and her sister Laresa were hurrying around the house getting everything ready for this important day.
“Where is my other new shoe?” Laresa called. “I can’t find my writing book either.”
“Look in your drawer,” Mother suggested.
Never had Talena seen so much excitement, except maybe on Christmas morning.
“Why can’t I go to school too?” Talena asked.
“Next year you’ll be five and then you can go, honey,” Mother answered as she hurried down the hall with Laresa’s shoe.
“But I want to go today!” Talena insisted. However, everyone was too busy to listen to her.
Talena sat down and frowned. It’ll be awful to stay home without Laresa. There won’t be anyone to play with, she thought sadly as Mother came back down the hall.
“I wish I were five years old like Laresa, then I could go to school today,” Talena said.
“That’s right,” Mother said as she hurried past Talena.
Laresa was finally ready to go.
“Good-bye, Talena,” she called. “We’ll play together after school and I’ll tell you everything that happens to me today.”
“Good-bye!” Talena shouted after her sister.
“Be a very, very good girl,” Mother called to Laresa.
As soon as her older sister had gone, Talena ran to their bedroom. She took one of Laresa’s dresses out of the closet and put it on. Then she put on her play high heel shoes and carefully measured herself on the growth chart. It measured just right! She was as tall as Laresa. Hurriedly she slipped on her sweater and got her writing notebook out of the drawer.
“Mother,” Talena called. “I’m five now. Can I go to school?”
Mother looked at Talena with an understanding smile. “But you won’t really be five years old until July,” Mother said, giving her a hug.
“But I’m as tall as Laresa now and her dress almost fits me. I’m five now!”
Mother sat down beside Talena. “Years aren’t measured by how tall you are or by how big your dress is,” she said.
“They aren’t?” Talena began to frown again.
“No, years are measured by months. The only way you can become five is to wait until all the months have passed and July is here again. Then on your birthday you will be five years old.”
“Can’t I try to be five now?” Talena asked hopefully.
“No. All you can do is wait until July,” Mother said. “But I’m glad you’re still home with me.”
Talena walked back to the bedroom. She slowly hung up Laresa’s dress and began to pick up her toys. As she was working she had an idea. Faster and faster she worked until the room was all clean. She sat her dolls on her bed and put on her very best dress-up hat. Then she put on Mother’s old pink dress and got her dress-up purse.
“Now,” Talena said to her dolls, “I’m the teacher and you had better be very, very good children. It’s time for school to start.”

Some of you have heard me repeat a story of Zina Young Williams in 1885 who appealed to President John Taylor for help when it looked like the Brigham Young Academy, later to be Brigham Young University, was on the verge of financial collapse.
President Taylor listened sympathetically to Sister Williams and then reassured. He said that her father, Brigham Young, had appeared to him in the night and promised him that all would be well, "that Christ himself was directing, and had a care over the school." A few years later President Karl Maesen, the president of the academy, saw a vision of the present day Brigham Young University in which he said, "I have seen temple hill filled with buildings - great temples of learning." (1913, 1935)

In the month of February, 1848, the Twelve Apostles met at Hyde Park, Pottawattamie County, Iowa, where a small Branch of the Church was established. . . . We were in prayer and council, communing together; and what took place on that occasion? The voice of God came from on high, and spake to the Council. Every latent feeling was aroused, and every heart melted. What did it say unto us? “Let my servant Brigham step forth and receive the full power of the presiding Priesthood in my Church and kingdom.” This was the voice of the Almighty unto us at Council Bluffs, before I removed to what was called Kanesville. It has been said by some that Brigham was appointed by the people, and not by the voice of God. I do not know that this testimony has often, if ever, been given to the masses of the people before; but I am one that was present, and there are others here that were also present on that occasion, and did hear and feel the voice from heaven, and we were filled with the power of God. This is my testimony; these are my declarations unto the Saints—unto the members of the kingdom of God in the last days, and to all people.

. . . Men, women, and children came running together where we were, and asked us what was the matter. They said that their houses shook, and the ground trembled, and they did not know but that there was an earthquake. We told them that there was nothing the matter—not to be alarmed; the Lord was only whispering to us a little, and that he was probably not very far off. We felt no shaking of the earth or of the house, but were filled with the exceeding power and goodness of God. We knew and realized that we had the testimony of God within us. On the 6th day of April following, at our Annual Conference [I might say that on the coming sixth day of April at our annual conference, we’ll do precisely what they did here], held in the Log Tabernacle at Kanesville, the propriety of choosing a man to preside over the Church was investigated. In a very few minutes it was agreed to, and Brigham Young was chosen to fill that place without a dissenting voice, the people not knowing that there had been any revelation touching the matter. They ignorantly seconded the voice of the Lord from on high in his appointment. (Voice from the stand: “That is, Vox Dei, vox populi.”) Yes, the voice of God was the voice of the people. Brigham went right ahead, silently, to do the work of the Lord, and to feed his sheep, and take care of them like a faithful shepherd, leaving all vain aspirants to quarrel and contend about lineal descent, right, power, and authority.

When the Young Women of the Del Rio First Ward in Chandler, Arizona, heard about an orphanage in Zimbabwe that needed hats, they got right to work and started knitting. The Young Women already had an annual retreat planned to the mountains in northern Arizona, so they decided to knit hats while they enjoyed the fresh mountain air.
“I had a great time sitting and talking with everyone while we made these hats. We felt a sense of accomplishment,” said one of the Mia Maids. Jessica White, another Mia Maid, said she was really glad to make time for service. She says that all the girls became so engrossed in knitting that when the leaders suggested they go outside for a break, the girls wanted to stay inside and finish their work instead.
The Young Women made 40 hats during the weekend outing and many of the girls have continued knitting more hats since returning home.

One young woman diagnosed with a serious illness learned a great deal about diet and nutrition as she followed her doctor’s instructions during a year of difficult medical treatment. She carefully studied what she ate and joked with friends that she had never thought she would become so interested in the science of food. But as she struggled with her illness, she discovered that the habits of scripture study, regular temple attendance, and daily prayer sustained her as much as anything that nourished her body. She found the hymns of the Church particularly comforting.

Although scripture study and prayer had been a part of her life before her illness, she appreciated this daily spiritual nourishment in a new way. “I need my morning prayer as much as I need my green, leafy vegetables,” she said. By seeking spiritual nourishment every day, she was able to feel the Savior’s sustaining presence in her life.

Some years ago, I participated in a stake conference in Soweto, South Africa. I found the people of that township justly proud of being the only community in the world where not one but two Nobel laureates resided, and on the same street: Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu. These two were crucial leaders in the fight against apartheid and in guiding the transition to a new government and a new day in South Africa. You are familiar with the greatness of soul displayed by Mandela after nearly thirty years of persecution and imprisonment to institute an almost unbelievable degree of reconciliation and unity in South Africa.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu chaired the Truth and Reconciliation Commission set up at the end of apartheid. This commission was established on the proposition that for the nation to extricate itself from its oppressive past, it was necessary first to document fully the sins and suffering of apartheid. But once the record was completed, it was vital for both individuals and the society at large to be reconciled, to accept the confessions and repentance, to forgive, and to move forward.

Archbishop Tutu described this remarkable undertaking in his book No Future Without Forgiveness.12 He later published a second book with his daughter Mpho: Made for Goodness.13 In this book, Tutu and his daughter (also an Anglican minister) declare that murder and greed are not the norm for human behavior; the norm is goodness. This may seem a surprising thesis for one who presided over a commission that revealed in depth the iniquity of apartheid and one who had himself experienced the consequences. But Tutu’s deeper apperception and the success of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission teach us that, at some point, having done what we can to address the injustices of the past, we may accept the basic goodness present in imperfect man, leave ultimate justice in the hands of God, forgive what we cannot fix, and go forward, collaborating to make a better present and future.

When we moved to the United States, great trials began for me. We attended a small branch and I had great leaders who wanted to help me, but my school friends tried to pull me off the gospel path. Unfortunately, I began to speak to my mother in an unkind way and rarely listened to her counsel.
I would go to church every Sunday, but I really didn’t have the desire to go, and I didn’t know if I wanted to go on a mission anymore.
One morning I opened the Book of Mormon, and it opened exactly to the page of my favorite scripture, 3 Nephi 12:14–16:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, I give unto you to be the light of this people. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.
“Behold, do men light a candle and put it under a bushel? Nay, but on a candlestick, and it giveth light to all that are in the house;
“Therefore let your light so shine before this people, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”
It gave me great joy to read this because it helped me remember what I learned in seminary and how marvelous the plan of our Father is. So I decided to try to be a light to the world.
I invited two cousins to come to church. One was less active, and he became active. The other was not a member, and I was able to baptize him.

When I moved to Utah, I was instantly greeted by Jenny. She welcomed me to the ward and introduced me to others in the room. Jenny radiated love for others.
Each week, she searched for those who were a bit lost at church. They would be quiet, often sitting in the back or in a corner in meetings. She hugged each one and engaged them in conversation. It didn’t matter who they were—no one escaped Jenny’s embrace. She glowed with Christlike love and acceptance.
Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described what can happen when we minister out of love: “We will serve not because our service is being counted and measured but because we love our Father in Heaven and are motivated by a higher and nobler pursuit—helping our friends find and stay on the path home to Him. We are loving and serving our neighbors as Jesus would if He were in our place, truly trying to improve people’s lives and lighten their burdens.”
President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, spoke of the “poor in spirit” who struggle and shared his deep testimony of the power of Christ’s love: “There can and will be plenty of difficulties in life. Nevertheless, the soul that comes unto Christ, who knows His voice and strives to do as He did, finds a strength, as the hymn says, ‘beyond [his] own’ [“Lord, I Would Follow Thee,” Hymns, no. 220]. The Savior reminds us that He has ‘graven [us] upon the palms of [His] hands’ [1 Nephi 21:16]. … When He says to the poor in spirit, ‘Come unto me,’ He means He knows the way out and He knows the way up. … He knows the way because He is the way.”
Each of us can share Christ’s love with those around us who are feeling “poor in spirit.” From testifying to encouraging to simply wrapping our arms around them and saying, “Jesus loves you!,” we can find many ways to share His love with those who desperately need reminding.
Each of us can invite others, say hello to them, pray for them, search for them, and share Christ’s love with those who struggle. This work of ministering can unite us all with bonds of charity as we do Christ’s work among our brothers and sisters.
The author lives in Utah.