Gospel Story Finder

Peace McBride placed a “closed” sign in the window and carefully shut the curtains. Then she packed the blue silk ball gown into the brown box to be delivered to Mrs. Farren for a ball that very night. As she folded the dress, she admired the shimmering silk. Her employer, Mrs. Root, was very particular, and Peace had learned to be a good seamstress. Some of my own stitches are in this beautiful dress, Peace thought happily.
Mrs. Root had already gone for the evening, leaving Peace to deliver the dress. She was pleased that Mrs. Root trusted her now. As she hurried out into the cold December evening of 1839, she pulled her pelisse close and bowed her head against the chill wind. Glancing ahead, she saw a long line of people winding toward the church on the corner. Her curiosity made her stop. “Excuse me,” she said to a young woman with a pink feather curled around her hat, “could you tell me what’s happening tonight?”
“There’s a new preacher speaking,” the woman answered. “His name is Joseph Smith, and he claims to have seen an angel who gave him a golden Bible.”
“A golden Bible!” Peace exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“Stand thee in line with us,” a matronly Quaker woman said. “It costs nothing, and thee mayest learn something.”
Peace looked down at the box. “I would like to, but I promised my mistress that I would deliver this.”
The older woman nodded. “Then thee must do as thee hast promised.”
As Peace made her way through the crowd to the corner, a carriage pulled up beside her. A man leaped lightly from the carriage, followed by his companions. Peace studied his face. It was a fine face with good, clean lines. The eyes were clear and straightforward. She felt that he was a special person. As she watched, people shook his hand and greeted him. She decided that he must be Joseph Smith.
The crowd surged into the church as the doors opened to admit the men. Peace found herself pulled along with them. She couldn’t fight her way out, so she took a seat near the middle of the church and sat down. The man who she had assumed was Joseph Smith was now at the pulpit, shaking hands with those around him. Settling herself, she saw Mrs. Root seated two rows ahead of her!
Peace slumped down behind a tall man dressed in quiet Quaker garb. He was tall enough to hide her if Mrs. Root turned around. She knew that her employer would not be pleased to see her at a meeting when she should be working.
People continued to pour into the building. Peace knew that over two thousand people could be seated comfortably in the building, and although it was one of Philadelphia’s largest, people were crammed onto the benches. There must be over three thousand people squeezed in here, she thought.
A hush stilled the audience as Joseph Smith stood to speak. He spoke in a voice that all could hear. He spoke with great power about visions that he had seen and of an angel who had told him where to find scriptures written on gold plates. He told of translating those plates by the power of God.
Peace felt something flow through her as he spoke. It was like some of old Ben Franklin’s electricity had passed right through her. She sensed that the people around her were having the same reaction to the speaker’s words. When he bore his testimony to them, Peace felt a burning inside her. She believed that it was the burning of the Holy Ghost, which she had heard about in church.
She didn’t know how long the sermon lasted. She only remembered feeling that at last she had found truth. When Joseph Smith challenged all within his hearing to be baptized and join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she knew that she needed to do so.
Clutching the forgotten brown box in her arms, she followed the crowd out of the church and into the chill evening air. She edged her way to the front of the group, where several men surrounding Joseph Smith were talking to the people and telling them where the baptism would be held. “Please, good sir,” Peace said to a nice-looking man. “I desire to be baptized. Do you baptize children?”
“How old are you, my child?” he asked.
“I’m twelve.”
“Do you truly believe what Joseph Smith the Prophet has said this evening?”
“I know that it’s true,” she answered simply. “I must do as he said and join his church.”
“It’s not Joseph’s church,” the man reminded her gently. “It’s the Church of Jesus Christ.”
“I know it. Please let me join!”
With the knowledge that the baptism would be the next day, Peace slowly retraced her steps back to the shop. At the doorway, she looked in horror at the brown box in her hands! “Mrs. Farren!” she gasped.
With the box bumping against her legs, she ran as fast as she could past the crowd at the church and across the street to the Farren mansion. Lights blazed from all the rooms, and her heart sank as she realized the lateness of the hour. Hurrying to the back door, she knocked timidly. The door was thrown open, and a maid stood impatiently at the door. “Is that the mistress’s dress?”
“Yes, if it pleases you, Miss,” Peace replied, curtsying.
“You’re late. She almost had to make do without it. She’ll have something to say about this to Mrs. Root!” She slammed the door in Peace’s face.
It seemed a long way back to the shop. Peace suddenly felt very tired, and she still had to face her employer and tell her what had happened. Mrs. Root was in the front parlor when Peace climbed the stairs to the living quarters above the shop. She put her bonnet and pelisse away, then stood in front of her mistress. “Mistress Root,” she began with her head down, “Mrs. Farren is angry tonight. I didn’t get the dress to her when I should have.” She expected an angry retort or maybe even a slap as Mistress Root was wont to inflict at times. When nothing happened, Peace looked up.
A beautiful smile covered Mrs. Root’s face. “What caused you to be so late?” she asked. “I’ve never known you to offend like this.”
“I started out in plenty of time,” Peace began, “but there was a large crowd in front of the church, and I followed them inside and listened to the speaker.” Again she remembered the burning feeling and tried to explain it. “There was a prophet of God there,” she declared, even though she knew that her mistress had heard him too. “He told of a new church that had the restored gospel of Jesus Christ—”
“I know,” Mrs. Root interrupted gently. “I, too, was there. It was a special evening, wasn’t it?” She smiled, then picked up a book from her lap. In the light of the lamp, Peace could see the name on the cover—The Book of Mormon.
It was the book that Joseph Smith had translated through the power of God. He had said that it had been delivered by an angel. Reverently Peace took it in her hands. “Would you let me try to read some of it?” she asked. She had never had an opportunity to go to school, but she had learned to read a little in her spare time.
“Sit down, my dear,” Mrs. Root replied. “You still have that collar to sew for Patience Black. The night’s still early, and idle hands are not good for young girls.”
Peace sighed. It had been a long day, and she wanted to go to the solitude of her room to think over what had happened that evening. But she obediently picked up the collar and began to place small, even stitches around the lace edging.
“There,” Mrs. Root said in satisfaction. “While you’re sewing, I’ll just read a little of the book to you.”
Peace looked up in surprise. Mrs. Root was smiling kindly at her, and Peace felt a keen joy. It will be good to hear what is in this important book, she decided. It will be good to hear more of the word of God.
(To be continued)

I grew up in Idaho Falls, Idaho, on the edge of town. Across the street were fields where pheasants flew and where we played in the snow. Later our new chapel was built there. I went over every night after school to help build the chapel, handing bricks to bricklayers and cleaning up the construction site. I remember that I took great pride in that chapel. I wanted to take good care of it because I had helped build it.

I threw myself on top of the dingy green bedspread and stared at the ceiling. My throat felt tight from fighting back tears. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. It had been a beautiful spring day. My companion and I were teaching several wonderful people in Kecskemét, Hungary. I was serving the Lord and should be joyful. So why had this oppressive sense of failure overcome me?
I knew many missionaries who struggled with occasional feelings of inadequacy; lately those feelings had seemed to become my permanent state of mind. But wasn’t I doing things right—praying regularly, reading the scriptures, working hard, obeying mission rules? Still, I felt so imperfect. It seemed as if my faults were preventing the Lord from reaching the people who needed to hear the gospel.
My companion was on her bed, reading a letter from home. I wanted to talk to her, but she was new in the country and struggling to adjust to mission life and to learn Hungarian. She didn’t need to hear about my problems.
I opened my scriptures and began reading in Ether 12:27: “And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me …”
I stopped. This scripture was one of my favorites. I had read it many times and had even prayed about it in the Missionary Training Center, asking the Lord to grant me humility and help me be strong. I knew that the Lord often teaches us humility through our weaknesses. Hadn’t Alma said as much to the poor people who had been cast out of the synagogues (see Alma 32:6–16)? I knew that if I could learn humility, the Lord would make me strong. But I did not feel strong, and my weaknesses were becoming more evident with every passing day. So what was I missing?
I decided to read the verse again. This time it was different. It was as if I had missed something in my previous readings. “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me.” As I read that line again, the Spirit overwhelmed me. “The grace of Christ is sufficient!” With insight from the Spirit, I felt things begin to fall into place.
Turning to the end of the Book of Mormon, I read Moroni’s beautiful invitation: “Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ” (Moro. 10:32).
The Spirit was trying to teach me. My problem was not that I had done something wrong but that I had failed to do something right. In my pride, I was trying to make myself perfect, rather than humbling myself before Jesus Christ and asking for His help in overcoming my weaknesses. Of course I was failing! None of us can do it alone—we can become perfected only in Christ, with His help. We must do our part, of course. But unless we truly come unto Christ, we cannot be saved, nor can the power of the Atonement take effect in our lives. But if we come unto Christ, then His grace is sufficient for us—not too little, but enough.
Things did not change overnight, but peace began to find its way into my heart. Although I still struggled occasionally, what I had learned about the Atonement helped me keep an eternal perspective and reminded me that it was not necessary to endure everything alone.
I will always be grateful for the opportunity to serve a mission. And I am particularly thankful for that quiet night in Kecskemét, Hungary, when I learned about the power of the Atonement to heal and make whole.

President Benson bore such a testimony in October 1959 when he visited the Central Baptist Church in Moscow, Russia, and was asked to speak. He described the event later as one of the most moving experiences of his life. The church was filled with about 1,500 people seeking to satisfy their spiritual hunger and thirst even though government policy discouraged religion. He testified: “God lives, I know that He lives. He is our Father. Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the World, watches over this earth. … Be unafraid, keep His commandments, love one another, pray for peace and all will be well.” In closing, he said, “I leave you my witness as a Church servant for many years that the truth will endure. Time is on the side of truth. God bless you and keep you all the days of your life.” Those present were touched deeply. Many wept openly, including a cynical newsman and a young Russian interpreter. The congregation began singing “God Be with You Till We Meet Again.” They waved their handkerchiefs in joyous gratitude and in farewell as he and those with him left the meeting. (In Ezra Taft Benson, Cross Fire: The Eight Years with Eisenhower, Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1962, pp. 485–88.)

Thank you for the beautiful songs you print in the In Tune section of the New Era. They always bring a special spirit into our home whenever I sit at the piano and sing them. I would especially like to thank you for printing “Come unto Him” in the April 1995 issue. The warmth and comfort I felt were what I really needed.
Rebecca EltonMeridian, Idaho

Brett G. Scharffs is a law professor at Brigham Young University. When some of his colleagues at other universities find out he is a devout believer, they sometimes ask, “But what if you are wrong and God does not exist?”
He responds: “I am willing to be wrong in this way if it means believing and treating others as though they are children of God, created in His image with the potential to become beings like unto a perfect and perfectly loving God. I would rather make the mistake of attributing meaning and love to a universe that is meaningless and indifferent than vice versa. And besides, I do not think we are wrong.”6

Illustration by Ben Sowards
One Sunday, the stake patriarch led our lesson about patriarchal blessings. Before this lesson, I knew almost nothing about these blessings. I’d heard about them once or twice, and my brother had recently received his, but I didn’t really understand their purpose.
In his lesson, the stake patriarch taught us that a patriarchal blessing is like personal scripture. It’s a blessing directly from God with several purposes. One is to declare your lineage in a tribe of the house of Israel. Others are to give you guidance and to promise you blessings Heavenly Father will give you if you’re faithful. The patriarch taught that we should always remain worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing and that we need to turn to our blessing often once we have it.
I listened closely to this lesson and took lots of notes in my journal. During the lesson, I kept thinking, “Maybe I should get my blessing.” That idea stuck.
Later that day, I asked my dad to help me understand the roles and blessings of the tribes of the house of Israel. It was long and hard, but we figured it out, and I recorded what we learned in my journal. It was so neat because I learned some things that I didn’t know before. I also read some talks about patriarchal blessings, and I did some other research on them.
As I studied and thought about patriarchal blessings, I prayed to know if I should receive mine. The Spirit let me know that I needed to get it soon, and I plan to do so. I’m so grateful for the patriarch’s lesson. It helped me understand patriarchal blessings and eventually encouraged me to get mine.

All week long I have looked forward to the dance tonight. Life on the trail is so dreary, just plodding along day after day. I don’t think I ever fixed supper faster or cleaned up more quickly than I did tonight. I called over to Sister Fuller in the next wagon to see if she needed help getting ready. She has two small children and a grandfather who has been ill. She replied that she wasn’t going to the dance. Her grandfather was feeling very ill, and someone had to stay with him.
Poor Sister Fuller. She loves to dance and sing and was probably looking forward to it even more than I. “I will watch your grandfather,” I told her. “I can come get you if he turns worse.”
“But you don’t want to miss the dance,” she protested.
“There are plenty of dances ahead of me. Go with your husband and enjoy yourself.”
Her smile lit up her entire face, and she hugged me. “God bless you, Hazel,” she whispered, and she hurried to freshen up.
So I spent the evening taking care of the grandfather and watching the sleeping babies. I heard the music and the happy voices all evening, and missed it dreadfully. But I was not sorry I stayed so that Sister Fuller could go. If I don’t feel happiness in my soul tonight, at least I feel peace.

When Billy Jackson sees a need, he looks for ways to fill it. And the need for service is all around Billy in his home of Pretoria, South Africa.
When Billy arrived in South Africa he decided that he wanted to make a difference in his new home. Today a mother-child nutrition center and a well that brings water to thousands of people has been constructed as a result of the plans Billy proposed. Billy also recently organized a clothing drive which distributed 40,000 pounds of clothing to those in need.
Billy, a teacher in the Sunnyside Ward, Pretoria Stake, has also helped in assisting a local homeless shelter, a cancer hospice, and a women’s health center. He was recently recognized for his service as the recipient of the Foreign Service Youth Award. The award, which is given by the U.S. government, goes to one student each year who is living overseas and shows dedication to community service.

Because paying my tithing was so important to me, I set up a bank account and put my tithing in it each month. I needed the Lord to know that even though He couldn’t take my tithing now, I still wanted to pay it. I was single at the time and raising my three teenage daughters, and I felt that I needed those blessings of showing the Lord my willingness to pay tithing, even though I couldn’t. I have no doubt we were extremely blessed because of it.
I closed out the account with my tithing in it, wrote the check, and excitedly gave it to my bishop.

5. For younger children, tell of good examples you have seen in your ward/branch among the children. Or use the story of George and how he was a good example, even at age five: The happy, sunshine child of the neighborhood, George wanted more than anything to be a missionary. He took flowers to shut-ins, ran errands, visited the lonely, raked leaves, and always said hello to everyone on his street as he passed their homes. One day his parents learned what a powerful missionary he was. A neighbor came to see them and said that he and his family wanted to know more about the things that made George such a happy, helpful boy.

Yesterday,
while bent over furrows
laden with warm, brown seeds.
I marveled at the miracle
of potential peas nestled
within tiny seed walls,
swelling upward to reach their source of light.
And now,
as I am bowed beneath
the weight of trials.
I marvel, too, at the miracle
of a potential deity
tucked within my soul,
struggling homeward to its source of Light.

Meet Rachael Tawiah from the Madina First Ward in the Accra Ghana Madina Stake. She is the voice heard in the YSA website tutorial video linked below. Her opportunity to be the voice in the video came from her desire to help others around her. After finishing her university degree in Publishing Studies, she completed her National Service in the Communications Department at the Area Offices. In her role, she assisted multiple departments with their photography and videography needs. Rachael’s optimistic personality and “can-do” attitude got her noticed.
Knowing Rachael’s willingness to try, the YSA department asked her to help with an experiment in voice-over recordings, and she rocked it! This was simply one more success in her long list of achievements, from teaching self-reliance classes to being a BYU Pathway graduate; however, her claim to fame is truly her courage to try new things and accept challenges.
Rachael’s long-term goal is to become a chartered accountant. To reach her goal, she is doubling up by taking accounting classes at the Ghana Institute of Management and Public Administration while working to complete her degree in Applied Business Management from Ensign College.
In the few minutes she has for personal leisure, Rachael enjoys reading and has recently discovered that she loves sewing. Rachael is an impressive example of becoming a lifelong learner.
Listen to Rachael’s clear and soothing voice in the tutorial video below to learn more about what the YSA website has to offer! Scan the code to watch the video:

I lost the starring part in Our Town
To Linda, a girl not half as good as me,
Who kept her eyes down
For the whole tryout, and even stuttered.
When the cast was posted
And the high school drama coach
Saw me reading it through my tears,
He put an arm around me and said,
“Now, look—things are not always as they appear.
This is not Broadway;
It’s an educational institution.
We’re here for two reasons—to put on a show,
And, more important, to help people grow.
Someday you’ll see.”
So Linda played Emily,
And she didn’t even stutter.
And I was Third Woman at the Wedding,
Watching and wondering how he knew
What she could really do
If she had the chance.

Carla reached into the hat and took out a small paper. Quickly she unfolded it.
“Lane eight, heat one,” she read. Great!
She looked around the room, her eyes inadvertently landing on the starting block that loomed majestically over the end lane. That was her favorite position, and for this meet she needed all the advantages she could get. She had to win this one!
Carole, the girls’ team coach, walked over. “Which lane and heat?” she asked.
“Eight, heat one,” Carla answered.
“Good. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you’d loosen up. I’ve never seen you so tense. You can’t win like that. Any problems?”
“No,” Carla said too quickly, and then added, “It’s just that this race means a lot to me. It’s my last chance. The Western Division Trials only come every four years, and next time around I’ll be too old.”
“But it means a lot to the girls in the other seven lanes, too. Remember that.”
“Wow! What encouragement!” Carla tried to joke.
“All anyone can do is try her hardest, but if you don’t loosen up, you won’t stand a chance. You’re wasting good energy!”
Carla laughed as Carole walked away, but she knew that what Carole said was true. However, it didn’t change how she felt. This was more than a race, more than just a question of proving herself.
For five years she had been preparing for this one race, and finally it was here. Now was her chance to prove herself or find out if her five years had been wasted.
The hollow mechanical echoes of the huge natatorium seemed deafening. Carla kicked her foot into the water as over the loud speaker a deep voice boomed, “Attention, swimmers.” And the room hushed to a murmur. “The girls’ 200-meter breaststroke qualifying heat number one will be next. Swimmers, report to your lanes.”
Carla took a deep breath. It was now or never!
“Good luck.” She jumped at the voice from behind.
“Oh, Dave,” she said. “You scared me!”
“Sorry! I just wanted to wish you luck.” He smiled, and for the first time all morning she felt almost at ease.
“Thanks.”
Quickly Carla hurried to her lane, removed her sweatshirt, and started shaking her arms, trying to loosen the tense muscles. There would be four qualifying heats, and to make the final round she had to have one of the eight fastest times. In this heat she would be racing time, not the other swimmers, so she couldn’t judge too much on her position.
“Judges ready?” the starter shouted, and 16 hands popped up at the ends of the pool. “Swimmers, take your mark.”
Carla climbed onto the block and curled her toes around the edge. “Get set.” She stooped precisely, her arms back as if she were about to take off in flight.
“Bang!” the starting gun fired, and Carla threw her arms forward, pushed with her feet, and strained each muscle to get every inch she could out of the dive. Her arms and legs slapped the water to keep her on top as she landed, and then in a precise, four-count rhythm she started stroking.
It was a good start that put her out in front, but she knew her turns were weak. She had to make time in the stroke. Her arms pulled at the water as if it were something that could be conquered, and her legs pushed powerfully as she spurted down the lane.
At the end of the fourth lap she still had the lead, but the girl in lane three was barely behind. Carla pushed a little harder, even though she knew she had to save something for the last two laps. Two more laps and lane three passed her by half a body length and lanes one and six were too close for any assurances.
She made the next to the last turn and then gave just a little more. Lane one slowed, lane six spurted, and lane three began to pull out even farther. The last turn. Carla’s muscles ached, but she wasn’t yet aware of it. Forcefully she now gave it everything she had. Lane three had pulled out too soon and was now lagging, lane one slowed even more, but six was suddenly a contender. Carla pulled wide and hard as she drew three more strokes then slapped the bank with both hands. Six had come on fast, but her spurt wasn’t soon enough. Carla finished first.
Her teammates gathered around the starting block and pulled her out of the pool.
“Good work!” Dave grinned.
“Thanks.” She smiled. “Do you know the time yet?” She was panting for breath, but she was too excited to stop and catch it.
“Two minutes, forty-seven and two-tenths seconds! You’re sure to qualify with a time like that.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
“What time does your heat start?”
“We’re next.”
“I’ll wish you luck, but to tell the truth, I don’t think you need any. There’s not a soul here who can beat you.”
The other girls on the team began to crowd around. Ann put a towel over Carla’s head and pulled it back and forth.
“Way to go!” she shouted. “What a time! Hope I do as well.”
“You will.”
Carla pulled the towel down to her shoulders, grabbed her sweatshirt, and ran into the locker room. She had two more events, freestyle and the team relay, but they weren’t for another hour. She lay down on the bench and waited uneasily for the results. Finally the loud speaker clicked on. Carla jumped up and ran out to the pool.
“The eight best times for the girls’ 200-meter breaststroke are Kathy Winn 2:46.6, Leslie Jacobs 2:47.1, Carla James 2:47.2 …”
Carla didn’t hear anymore! She had made it.
That night Dave came over after dinner.
“Thought you might like to go for a little ride,” he said.
“Sounds great.”
They got in the car and rode awhile without saying anything. Then finally Dave spoke.
“Are you a little more relaxed now?”
“Yes.” She paused before she went on. “You know for some reason those time trials are more frightening than the final race!”
“You’re not upset about not qualifying in the freestyle?”
“Not too much. I’m weak in freestyle. I was hoping to qualify, but at least the relay team qualified, and two out of three isn’t bad.”
“I agree.” Dave laughed.
“But I will be upset if I don’t win that race tomorrow!”
“Be careful! You can’t let the whole world ride on one race.”
“My whole world already does.”
“Oh?” Dave feigned hurt.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Besides, I feel good about tomorrow. I’ve trained harder than any of the others, and I’ve been at it longer. I deserve to win.”
“This doesn’t sound like you, Carla.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to explain it! It’s not that I mean to be conceited. It’s just that … well, like Kathy Winn. She’s only been competing for three years, and you and I both know that she jumps in and out of training like a hopscotch pro!”
“But she had half a second on you this morning.”
“But I’ve got faith. I’ve done everything just the way I should. That’s got to mean something.”
Dave smiled at Carla, his soft brown eyes full of concern. “I hope you’re right. But after hearing your philosophy, I’d better get you home before you break curfew tonight.”
“Me and my big mouth!” Carla laughed. “And how do you feel about your races tomorrow?”
“I don’t! That’s one of my secrets. If I win, I win; if I don’t, I don’t.”
“Even with a race as important as tomorrow’s? I just don’t think it’s that easy.”
“It is, though. All I can do is try my best. If that doesn’t work, then I at least have the satisfaction of knowing I did all I could.”
The little blue Pinto pulled into Carla’s driveway.
“End of sermon!” Dave laughed.
“Thanks for coming by,” Carla said as they walked to the door. “I really appreciate the talk.”
“Well, just think about it. And now, fair lady, I bid adieu!” Dave made a sweeping bow, his tall, thin body almost graceful.
“See you in the morning, goof!” Carla laughed.
“All right. I’ll pick you up at 7:00.” And Dave left.
By 10:30 the next morning, Carla’s relay team had failed to qualify for the Western Division Trials by just four-tenths of a second. Dave had qualified in the 400-meter backstroke and missed the 200-meter freestyle by three-tenths of a second, but his relay team had qualified, with him as the advantage-giving backstroker.
Of all things, Carla’s race was the next to the last, and she had drawn lane four. She hated that middle spot. Then to top it off, by the time the race was announced Carla was so nervous that the entire natatorium seemed to have taken on an electrical charge. Try as she might, she couldn’t lose the thought; this was her last chance to win a spot in the division trials.
She shook her arms and legs impatiently as she quickly scanned the gallery for her parents and then the decks for Dave. He wasn’t hard to find. His tall, browned body and sun-blonde hair stood out. He waved and she nodded back.
“Judges ready?” the starter began. “Swimmers, take your mark.” Carla climbed onto the block. “Get set.” Bang!
Her start was stiff, which lost her some time, but that could be overcome. Kathy Winn in lane six, Leslie Jacobs beside her in lane three, and a girl in lane eight were all ahead of Carla. In her mind she counted a rhythm, pushing a little harder than she should at the beginning. One, two, three, four.
Laps one, two, and three passed with the swimmers seemingly in a precision drill, then Kathy began to pull ahead of Leslie, lane three began to lag, and then one of her own teammates, Ann, in lane seven passed Carla.
Carla had to finish first or second to qualify, and she had to gain at least the third spot now or she’d be in no position to pull ahead in the last lap. She pushed a little harder, but the tense muscles were showing.
However, after lap six she had managed to pull into the third spot just behind Kathy and Ann. Leslie was close behind and gaining. Carla made the last turn and let go with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. She finished third.
Carla’s eyes stung as she climbed out of the pool. Her muscles felt like jelly, and there was a sickly hollow spot where her stomach should have been. Her teammates buzzed excitedly around Ann, and she knew what she should do, but she just couldn’t bring herself to congratulate Ann.
“It can’t be!” she kept thinking. “It just can’t be. I’ve worked so hard for this. It isn’t fair!”
As fast as she could, she made it to the locker room, and, half-stunned, she dressed and left without even drying her hair. She caught the bus at Second Street and sat down with a sigh of relief at having managed to avoid Dave and her teammates. By the time the bus stopped, however, she felt very foolish. But it was too late now. Slowly she walked the two blocks home, but she didn’t go in. She sat on the step to think, even though she felt as if there was nothing to think about anymore. It was just a habit by now. Everything was over. Five years wasted, five years of exercise, practice, and training. She wished she had waited for Dave. He would understand, but by now he’d be at the banquet. He was a winner, and winners had to be there.
Suddenly a small, blue car screeched into the driveway. Carla sat up and smiled as she recognized it. Then she frowned as Dave slammed the door and jumped disgustedly out of the car.
He walked over to her, gruffly handed her her sweatshirt, and then spoke in a harsh whisper-voice. “Here, you forgot this.”
His soft brown eyes had turned hard, and his face looked sad. She’d never seen him like this, and it scared her. Then fright turned to scorn. She wanted understanding, not this. What kind of friend was he anyway?
“Thanks, but I don’t need it anymore.”
“Going to run out, huh?” Even his face was different.
“I’m not running out. I’ve wasted five years trying for something that in less than three minutes slipped through my grasp. I’m not running out. It ran out on me!”
“Wasted? Carla, I watched you last summer teaching those underprivileged kids from the east side how to swim—the look on your face! It was then I knew you were more than just a girl on the team. This summer I watched you teach those mentally retarded kids not to be afraid of water, and it made me feel good just to think you were my girl. I watched you save a little boy’s life out at the lake, and I watched you teach your own sisters to race. You call that a waste? You’ve got the talent. It’s you running out, Carla, and all because of one race. I thought you were bigger than that.”
Dave threw the sweatshirt down and stalked away.
“But I explained it last night. I deserved this win. I earned it!”
“Life doesn’t work like that,” he said without looking back. The car door slammed, and he drove off.
Carla sat, stunned, as hate slowly melted to despair, then pity, then scorn, and finally thoughts mellowed as tears gushed wildly and she realized how wrong she had been.
Now the tears came, not because of her own wounded pride, but because she suddenly realized how immature she had been. And now besides a race, she’d probably lost a friend, too.
“Why is it that things are so easy to see when it’s too late,” she whispered. Then slowly a blue Pinto came to a stop in front of the house.
Dave walked to the porch, his eyes soft, his walk slow and deliberate. He picked up the sweatshirt, folded it, and sat down next to Carla. Silently they sat, not needing to speak. But Carla felt a relief that showed in a whisper of a smile.
Finally Dave spoke. “The banquet hasn’t started yet.”
“I can be ready in five minutes.”
“I’ll give you six,” he said, “but I expect you to be my partner at the winners’ table.”
An arrow of pride struck at Carla’s heart, but she hesitated only for a moment. “I can make it in four.”
“Then get ready,” he said, but she had already gone in.

“We have a distant relative in Warsaw and so we informed him of the choir’s coming,” said Charlene VanWagenen Gale. “After the concert, with a picture of him in hand, I looked for him until I found him. At his home that evening, we talked of the gospel—modern revelation, the Restoration, the Word of Wisdom. On occasion, tears would stream down his wife’s face. After we discussed Apostles and prophets, in the midst of our conversation, he asked, ‘Are you an Apostle?’ ‘No, I’m a disciple,’ I said, and explained the difference. ‘But you speak with such conviction,’ he said. ‘I only speak what I know,’ I replied. He said, ‘I want to know why I feel the way I feel when you speak.’ I talked to him about the Holy Ghost and then asked him, ‘Would you like to visit the missionaries to learn more?’ The answer was yes.”

What is the Lord’s oracle saying to us today? The general theme, of course, is to lengthen our stride in a variety of areas. A few weeks ago Sister Dunn and I had the opportunity to accompany President and Sister Kimball, President and Sister Tanner, and some other of the General Authorities and their wives to the area conferences in the South Pacific. May I share with you some of what I recorded President Kimball saying at these gatherings regarding missionary work?
In Sydney, Australia, he told of the operation on his throat and how they left a portion of the vocal cords, which allowed him to preach the gospel all over the world. He said he wants to continue and work very hard at doing this, but he does not want to do it alone. He then invited all the members of the Church to stand with him, and preach the gospel just as the Lord has commanded us to do.

Inviting My Friends
I invite my friends Demina and Sina to church, and sometimes they go with me. I hope they will get baptized someday.

One of the most remarkable creatures on earth is the monarch butterfly. On a trip to Mexico to spend Christmas with my husband’s family, we visited a butterfly sanctuary, where millions of monarch butterflies spend the winter. It was fascinating to see such an impressive sight and for us to reflect on the example of unity and obedience to divine laws that God’s creations demonstrate.1

Two years later, Joseph F., along with his family and faithful mother, Mary Fielding Smith, left his home in Nauvoo for Winter Quarters. Although not yet eight years old, Joseph F. was required to drive one of the oxteams from Montrose, Iowa, to Winter Quarters and then later on to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving when he was almost 10. I hope you boys and young men are listening and will realize the responsibility and expectation placed on Joseph F. during his boyhood.