Gospel Story Finder

I would like to say a few words about President Thomas S. Monson. Some years ago, President Monson came to a regional conference in Hamburg, Germany, and it was my honor to accompany him. President Monson has a remarkable memory, and we talked about many of the Saints in Germany—I was amazed that he remembered so many so well.
President Monson asked me about Brother Michael Panitsch, a former stake president and then a patriarch, who had been one of the stalwart pioneers of the Church in Germany. I told him that Brother Panitsch was seriously ill, that he was bedridden and unable to attend our meetings.
President Monson asked if we could pay him a visit.
I knew that shortly before his trip to Hamburg, President Monson had undergone foot surgery and that he could not walk without pain. I explained that Brother Panitsch lived on the fifth floor of a building with no elevators. We would have to climb the stairs to see him.
But President Monson insisted. And so we went.
I remember how difficult it was for President Monson to climb those stairs. He could take only a few at a time before needing to stop and rest. He never uttered a word of complaint, and he would not turn back. Because the building had high ceilings, the stairs seemed to go on forever, but President Monson cheerfully persevered until we arrived at the apartment of Brother Panitsch on the fifth floor.
Once there, we had a wonderful visit. President Monson thanked him for his life of dedicated service and cheered him with a smile. Before we left, he gave him a wonderful priesthood blessing.
No one but Brother Panitsch, the immediate family, and myself ever saw that act of courage and compassion.
President Monson could have chosen to rest between our long and frequent meetings. He could have asked to see some of the beautiful sights of Hamburg. I have often thought of how remarkable it was that of all the sights in that city, the one he wanted to see more than any other was a feeble and ailing member of the Church who had faithfully and humbly served the Lord.
President Monson came to Hamburg to teach and bless the people of a country, and that is what he did. But at the same time, he focused on the one, name by name. His vision is so broad and far-reaching to grasp the complexities of a worldwide Church, yet he is also so compassionate to focus on the one.

On July 1, 2024, Carriacou and surrounding areas of the Caribbean were hit by a Category 4 hurricane, slashing through the islands and causing widespread destruction. The hurricane caused severe damage to infrastructure, services, and livelihoods in Grenada, Jamaica, and St. Vincent and the Grenadines. The tropical storm transformed into a major hurricane in less than 48 hours, with little time to prepare. Almost every structure on Carriacou and Petite Martinique in Grenada, Union Island, Canauan, and Mayreau in St. Vincent and the Grenadines sustained debilitating damage, leaving thousands homeless and destroying 90 percent of the homes and buildings.
On July 6, 2024, a brave group of nine missionaries from Grenada, led by Elder Seth Whitehead, a senior missionary, arrived on the scene. Working along with the people from the communities, they distributed food, provided manpower to clean the debris, and tried to comfort those in need of consoling. They committed to returning at a later date to help with a variety of projects. Returning on August 19, the group continued to help by setting up 600 tents from ShelterBox, a nonprofit organization that helps people recover after a disaster. They also continued to show love and support to those who had lost so much.
Many of the missionaries found this to be a life-changing experience. Below are some thoughts the missionaries shared:
Elder Tyler Hatch felt it was important to get people back to where their homes were by setting up tents and giving them some comfort with a gospel message. He reminisced, “It was cool to see a smile on their faces because now they had a place for their family. I hope they felt genuine love and also they knew some people really cared about them.”
Elder Sebastian Fuller said, “We were hot, tired, and thirsty, but I realized that if I looked outward at the needs of others who had no shelter, I was able to look beyond myself and why I was there. We set up a tent for a woman without a home. Her home was lying on the ground in splinters. I felt a great love for the people we were helping. … The Church has no presence in Carriacou, so this was a great first step in introducing them to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”
While in Carriacou, Elder Nathan Wilkinson saw some people living under other people’s homes in dirt dugouts. “We saw so many people turn down food because they didn’t think it was adequate. I learned that a positive attitude, counting your blessings, and being grateful for what you have is very helpful, especially in difficult times.”
Elder Corbin Carpenter expressed, “The best thing I could have done was to show the people that I was there to serve just as Jesus would have done.”
For Elder Dallin Burneson, there was a dual purpose in going to Carriacou. He explained, “Yes, the tents were important, but I wanted to show these people that God cared about them. I wasn’t just sending a package from a thousand miles away; I was there helping them, showing them that I love them. I remember a mother and her daughter, and the mother was clearly exhausted. The daughter, however, was so excited. She kept saying, ‘I want to see inside.’ I opened the door to the tent, and she said, ‘Wow!’”

Renee Huggins was born in Haiti, a country located on a small island in the Caribbean Sea. When she was eight years old, she and her mother moved to Utah to be closer to Renee’s aunts, uncles, and cousins.
After the move, Renee’s family and friends told her and her mother about the gospel. Soon the missionaries started teaching them.
At first, Renee wasn’t sure she wanted to be baptized. Then one day the missionaries read a scripture about baptism from the Book of Mormon. The prophet Nephi said that baptism is like a gate to a path leading to Heavenly Father. He also described the blessings of receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost after baptism. (See 2 Ne. 31:17–18.)
Renee felt a warm, happy feeling in her heart. She knew she wanted to return to Heavenly Father. And she wanted the gift of the Holy Ghost. She thought the Holy Ghost would be a good friend and companion to help her throughout her life. She and her mother were soon baptized.

Susie sat at her desk in the back corner of the classroom, twirling a strand of shiny dark hair around and around her finger.
“Susie, do you have the answer to problem eleven?” Mrs. Marsh asked. “Susie?”
Suddenly hearing her name, Susie made the jump from her daydream to what was actually happening in the class. “No, Mrs. Marsh. I didn’t get it.”
She could hear someone in the class snicker. Why does somebody always have to snicker when you’re already feeling dumb? she wondered.
In her daydreams, nobody snickered at Susie. Of course, there was no reason to. In her daydreams, she always had the answer when the teacher called her. She was always picked first on the dodgeball teams. She was always surrounded by friends who thought she was smart and pretty. And she was always “all-American.”
Reality wasn’t nearly as nice. In reality, Susie was shy, not very athletic, not quick with the correct answers, not the popular blond beauty she wished to be. In reality, Susie was Japanese-American, and different from everybody else in her new school.
This week Susie had an additional problem: Tomorrow, Saturday, was Grandmother’s birthday. Grandmother Shizuko would be eighty years old. It was to be a very special birthday with a traditional Japanese dinner before the cake and ice cream. Grandmother had asked Susie earlier in the week to bring two friends to the party to meet her family. Grandmother was so anxious to meet her new friends that Susie couldn’t tell her that she hadn’t made any yet. Inviting friends to a Japanese dinner was not something Susie wanted to do, anyway. She wanted to be as American as possible. She didn’t want any of the kids at school to know how really different her family was.
Well, she would have to ask someone and just hope for the best. Actually there wasn’t much to lose. She couldn’t lose friends, because she didn’t have any. And the kids already knew that she was different, so …
Susie looked around the classroom. She decided to invite Dina, the smartest girl in the class, and Jackie, the friendliest. If she could choose anybody to be friends with, it would be Dina and Jackie. At recess time she gathered her courage and asked them. To her delight, they both said that they’d come. But would they think her family was strange?
As the time for Grandmother’s birthday dinner approached, Susie became nervous. She helped Mother set the table with the best china dishes, ones with a pale green bamboo design on them. She handed flowers to Mother, who arranged them in a beautiful centerpiece. Then she helped wrap the birthday presents and licked the beaters after Mother had frosted the birthday cake.
When the doorbell rang, Susie ran to answer it. Dina and Jackie stood on the porch, smiling. They were wearing pretty dresses and holding a package between them.
Susie took a deep breath and hoped that the party would go well for Grandmother’s sake and her own. She hoped once again that the girls wouldn’t find her family too strange, that they would accept her and her family as friends.
She led Dina and Jackie into the living room, where Grandmother sat in a large chair. “Grandmother, this is Dina and this is Jackie.” She turned to her guests. “This is my Grandmother Shizuko. I am named for her, but for Americans, I call myself Susie,” she explained.
The girls were not shy around Grandmother. “Are you really from Japan?” Dina asked.
“Yes. I was born in Japan, but I have lived in America for many years now,” Grandmother answered.
“Do you speak Japanese?” Jackie asked her. When Grandmother nodded with a smile, Jackie asked, “Would you teach us to say something in Japanese?”
“Konban wa (kone-bahn wah),” said Grandmother, bowing her head slightly. “It means ‘good evening.’”
“Konban wa,” the girls said to Grandmother and each other.
“We brought you a birthday present,” said Dina, holding out the package.
“Arigato (ah-lee-gaht-o).” Grandmother smiled. “That means ‘thank you.’”
The girls asked Grandmother what it was like to grow up in Japan. She told them stories about her childhood there, until Father announced that dinner was ready.
Everything was going well so far. The girls seemed to really enjoy hearing Grandmother’s stories and learning a few Japanese words. But what would happen now? What would they think of the food? The main course was sushi, a colorful green, yellow, and red roll made of rice, cooked eggs, vegetables, processed fish, and ginger, all wrapped in seaweed. There was also tai (tie), a cooked fish, and sekihan (sek-ee-hahn), a red rice, which symbolize good wishes; sunomono (su-no-mo-no), vinegared cucumbers; chicken teriyaki; and other delicious things. Afterward, the American traditional birthday cake and ice cream was served.
The girls ate some of everything, even the seaweed rolls, although they giggled when they found out what they were made of. “If I had known before that it was seaweed, I probably wouldn’t have eaten it,” Jackie said. “But I’m glad I did. It’s delicious.”
“We don’t always eat Japanese food like this,” Susie hastily put in. “Lots of times we have hamburgers or steak. We mostly eat American food.” She didn’t want them to think that she ate a lot of weird things.
“But this is terrific! I envy you,” Dina said.
To Susie’s amazement, Jackie nodded in agreement. And they looked like they really meant it. “You envy me?”
“Yes. You’re lucky to have such an interesting family with both American and Japanese traditions,” Dina told her.
“And a grandmother who can tell such interesting stories!” Jackie added. “She should come to school sometime to tell the class about Japan.”
“Oh, yes!” Dina agreed enthusiastically. “Your family is really unique.”
Unique! Susie had never thought of it that way. She had thought that her classmates would find her family strange, maybe even weird. But Dina and Jackie thought that they were unique, a family to be proud of! Susie felt ashamed for not realizing how special her family was.
As she looked at her family and new friends gathered around the table, Grandmother met her gaze and said “Ii tomodachi (Ee toh-mo-dah-chee),” which Susie knew meant “good friends.” And when Grandmother showed Dina and Jackie another Japanese tradition by presenting them with little Japanese bowls to take home, Susie was proud.

Suellen (Su) Moraes is a member of the Church and a third-year student at Birmingham City University. She applied to the ParliaMentors programme after she followed a link sent to her by her stake president via a young adult group chat.
Su has been recognised as an outstanding ParliaMentors student, and Sister Tracey Prior and ParliaMentors Programme organiser, Ben Shapiro, wanted to show appreciation for her involvement.
Su, and three other students studying at Birmingham City University, knew that there were homeless people in the city. During the coronavirus pandemic, they recognised that homelessness would be a greater challenge.
At first, they wanted to collect supplies to give to the homeless, but this wasn’t possible with no one on campus. They kept looking for ways to help, however, and explored the matter through networking.
Su reconnected with a friend who worked with her a few years earlier. She discovered his passion for politics and was amazed at his desire to do meaningful work. That’s when she felt prompted to mention the homeless project. Her friend was able to link Su’s group to a company certified in construction-industry training. She was told that if the group had homeless people. they would train them free of charge.
Su then went back to her group to get their thoughts on the construction-industry training opportunity.
The construction-training opportunity is a huge success, and Su’s group are pleased with their efforts. They said that giving the homeless in their areas skills would help them in the long run.
Now Su’s group is working with homeless charities to refer individuals to them so they can liaise with the construction company to enrol the candidates into courses.
Ben is very impressed with their efforts, mostly because networking was in socially distanced ways, primarily online.
Sister Prior congratulated Su, saying she was “changing someone’s future, not just today.”
Su’s group is continuing its referral project, even after graduation, to help homeless people to be trained for careers. They started a society at their university, and they hope it will continue with other ParliaMentors participants.

On another occasion, I was in New Zealand visiting the home of a single mother with three teenage children. The oldest son was 18 and had received the Melchizedek Priesthood just the previous Sunday. I asked if he had been able to exercise this priesthood yet. He said, “I’m not sure what that means.”
I told him he now had the authority to give a priesthood blessing of comfort or healing. I looked at his mother, who had not had a Melchizedek Priesthood holder by her side for many years. “I think it would be wonderful,” I said, “if you would give your mom a blessing.”
He replied, “I don’t know how.”
I explained that he could put his hands on his mother’s head, state her name, state that he is giving her a blessing by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, say whatever the Spirit puts in his mind and heart, and close in the name of Jesus Christ.
The next day, I received an email from him. It read in part: “Tonight I blessed my mum. … I felt very, very nervous and inadequate, so I prayed continually to ensure I had the Spirit with me, because I could not give a blessing without it. As I started, I completely forgot myself and my weaknesses. … I [did not expect] the immense spiritual and emotional power I felt. … Afterwards the spirit of love hit me so hard I could not contain my emotions, so I hugged my mum and wept like a baby. … Even now as I write this, [I feel] the Spirit [so much that] I never want to sin again. … I love this gospel.”
Isn’t it inspiring to see how a seemingly ordinary young man can accomplish great things through priesthood service, even when he feels inadequate? I recently learned that this young elder has received a mission call and will enter the missionary training center next month. I believe he will lead many souls to Christ because he has learned how to follow Christ in his priesthood service—beginning in his own home, where his example is having a profound influence on his 14-year-old brother.

Miriam looked at the floor. “I think I goofed,” she said. “I didn’t come up with a good idea like the others.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” Mom said. “Please tell us what you did.”
“Well, I didn’t eat my Popsicle,” began Miriam. “I saw Tony on his front porch. I said, ‘Hi,’ but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that he had his tonsils taken out Monday. That really makes your throat hurt. So I gave my Popsicle to him, and I sat by him and told him stories and jokes until I saw everyone else coming back here. When I left, he still didn’t say anything, but he smiled.”
“Miriam,” said Mom, kissing her, “that was a good idea. You made someone just as happy as Benjamin and Johnny and Katie did. In fact, now we have a problem.”
“What?” asked the children.
“I don’t think I can decide which idea was best. They were all wonderful.”

The sun was just touching the water of the Great Salt Lake on a warm Sunday evening one August, when the radio speaker nestled snugly between windshield and handlebar of my police motorcycle crackled into life. “Motors 38 and 40,” said a female voice, “report of a noisy motorcycle in the neighborhood. Vicinity of Glendale Circle and Navajo Street. Complainant does not wish contact.”
I wrestled the radio mike from its clip and acknowledged the call. “Motors 38 and 40, 10–4.” My partner and I were on motorcycle patrol for the Salt Lake City Police Department. The cooler evening air felt good against my face as we picked up our pace, riding straight and tall, side by side, to answer this complaint. It had been a quiet day so far, for which I was grateful.
We soon arrived in the vicinity of the complaint and rode around several streets looking for the offending motorcycle. No such vehicle was seen, and I was just reaching for my mike to report GOA (gone on arrival) to the dispatcher, when around the corner came a new Harley Sportster. It was ridden by a handsome young man wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was well groomed and tan, just the kind of a fellow who would attract a 16-year-old girl like the one who was riding behind. She was very pretty and obviously enjoying the ride, her arms wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist and her hair blowing in the breeze. I cringed as I noticed her bare legs and shorts, knowing what injury she might receive if an accident were to occur.
My partner and I pulled up near this young couple and the cycle, and I listened to the pipes. It certainly wasn’t too loud, but perhaps they had been cutting up a little too much around the neighborhood. I was sure this was probably the culprit and decided to stop them to advise them to be a little more cautious. I moved up, nearly alongside the other cycle, and beeped my horn. The young man looked around, saw the police uniform, and suddenly, without warning, screwed the throttle handle full on, and away they went at a high rate of speed. I was surprised and shocked, not expecting such a response. I quickly kicked my motor into a lower gear, and the chase began.
Around and around several streets we went, siren wailing and lights flashing. My partner dropped back to use the radio and give locations as I continued the pursuit. Out of the subdivision and onto California Avenue we went. This was a major street, long and straight, and speeds increased. Soon we found ourselves sliding and scraping around the corner and heading north on Redwood Road. This main highway was heavy with traffic. The sun was gone now, and most cars had their lights on. My young man turned off his lights to try to lose me. My wailing siren was causing traffic to pull to the right and into his path. I slowed a little, giving him room because I feared an accident might occur. He was really desperate now. I could see him turning, looking back to see how close I was, and turning again, trying to turn the throttle tighter to get more speed. Still I stayed with him.
As we approached another major intersection at North Temple, I saw something that I will never forget. This young man, as he went around the corner, suddenly turned quickly on the cycle seat, bringing his elbow back and into the side of the young girl behind him. His blow knocked her off the bike, landing her in the middle of the busy intersection. His motorcycle fishtailed as he lost his burdensome load, but he regained control and sped away without so much as a backward glance as she went skidding and sliding along the gravel and asphalt.
Of course, I stopped my pursuit to give first aid and call for help, and the young man made good his escape—for a while. What a tragic way for a fun afternoon ride to end. How disillusioned this young girl was as her newfound “friend” had sacrificed her so willingly to save himself. I suppose if my partner and I had not come along that day, he could have pretended to be a friend to this girl for a long time, and perhaps she might have been hurt in even more significant ways. The young man was caught and arrested several hours later. It was determined that he was AWOL (absent without leave) from the Marine Corps, and he was returned to them under military guard.

I am not easy to wake up in the morning. My mum used to declare that she needed a crane to wake me up for early-morning seminary. So it came as no surprise that in my first year at university, I was one of the few who didn’t wake up to the fire alarm practice. Luckily, I had friends who came to my room and collected me.
Later that day we were discussing the morning’s events and laughing about what had happened, when another girl asked what I would do if the fire alarm went off for real. I was taken aback by the question but soon realized the gravity of the situation. One of my friends replied that she would come and warn me, and other friends assured me that they would check if I had left the building before they did. They would do this because they loved me.
That night I thought of the Lord’s commandment recorded in Doctrine and Covenants 88:81: “Behold, I sent you out to testify and warn the people, and it becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor.”
I realized that just as being warned of potential fires is important for my temporal welfare, so my sharing the gospel message is important for my friends’ spiritual lives. Just as they loved me enough to warn me of dangers, I realized that I loved them enough to share my knowledge of the gospel with them. That night I recommitted myself to obeying the commandment of the Lord by testifying of Jesus Christ and warning my neighbor.

I felt impressed to pray that someone he respected would come into his life. The name of one of his former Primary teachers came to mind, a peace officer whom I saw soon after at stake conference. I told him about my son and the impression I’d had. He said without hesitation that he would go and see him.
Two days later I was sitting at the sewing machine when I saw in my mind the officer standing in a room embracing my son. Tears were flowing down both of their faces. I looked at the clock. It was 2:15 P.M. When he called later that evening, I told him I knew he had been to see my son at 2:15 that afternoon. He confirmed that he had gone where I could not go and be welcomed. My heart overflowed with gratitude.
From that time on, I felt powerful spiritual confidence infuse me. I realized that my prayers were being heard and that deeply spiritual blessings could result if I would continue to be faithful and diligent in my efforts.

I close with another example of a family relationship. At a stake conference in the Midwest about 10 years ago, I met a sister who told me that her nonmember husband had been accompanying her to church for 12 years but had never joined the Church. What should she do? she asked. I counseled her to keep doing all the right things and to be patient and kind with her husband.

About a month later she wrote me as follows: “Well, I thought that the 12 years was a good show of patience, but I didn’t know if I was being very kind about it. So, I practiced real hard for over a month, and he got baptized.”

Kindness is powerful, especially in a family setting. Her letter continued, “I am even trying to be kinder now because we are working on a temple sealing this year!”

Six years later she wrote me another letter: “My husband was [just] called and set apart as the bishop [of our ward].”

But Aaron Moore doesn’t especially want to be here. Aaron, a sandy-haired 15-year-old from Silver Spring, Maryland, is in the cast because his family has voted by majority rule to participate as part of their summer vacation. “This is no vacation,” Aaron says as he laments over having to leave at home his brand-new pup, a combination Doberman-husky-German shepherd named Spike. “He misses Spike something awful,” says his 16-year-old sister, Kiersten.
Aaron would rather be home getting to know his new pup and doing other things that young boys like to do during summer vacations from school. But he knows the rest of the family wants to be here, so he bravely goes along.
The Sherwoods and virtually everyone else are enthusiastic about the two weeks that lie ahead. Everyone but Aaron.
Pageant director Jack Sederholm and his aides conduct auditions, and right away things change a bit for Aaron. He’s selected for one of the more critical roles in the pageant. He’s one of the band of robbers that attacks Ammon while he’s tending the herds of Lamanite King Lamoni. Aaron and the other robbers get to have sword fights with Ammon.
“As long as I’m here, I’m sure glad I got this role,” he says. “Sure, I have to lose the fight to Ammon, but it’s fun and there’s lots of activity, lots of rehearsals, and I’ll keep real busy. That way the time will go by quickly, and I’ll soon be able to get back to my dog.”
Aaron and his companion, 15-year-old Ben Reed of Fairfield, Ohio, aren’t spending as much time in study group as Kim and the other girls. When they’re not in devotionals, they’re generally on the hill, where assistant directors Lund Johnson and Walter Boyden are putting them and the other major characters through their paces. Aaron, the robber, is becoming more proficient in losing his sword fight with Ammon, and Ben is practicing his jumping moves as one of several “dancers” in the court of the pagan Lamanite King Lamoni prior to his conversion.
The swords used in the Ammon battle are heavy metal, and the combatants simply clang blades together as they spar for a few seconds before Ammon emerges victorious. Sometimes the clanging gets a little too close to the fingers, Aaron says, but he manages to escape accidental injury, a fate one of his fellow robbers falls victim to and heads for the dispensary in the trees where a volunteer nurse awaits with first-aid treatment.
After a workout on the hill, Aaron is breathing hard. It’s hot and it’s humid. The perspiration glistens on his forehead. But he’s smiling. There’s a noticeable improvement in his attitude.
“Well, I have to admit I’m enjoying it a little,” he says. “I’m making new friends. It’s kind of exciting to think about opening night. But I still miss my dog.”
The evening of dress rehearsal arrives. Everyone is in costume. Reporters are here interviewing, taking pictures, and videotaping for the nightly news. Cast members are taking photos of the costumes, some more colorful than others.
“Aaron doesn’t really like his costume,” his mother confides, “but he won’t complain about it. He likes the role but not the costume.”
“King Lamoni” loves his costume as he parades peacock-like before the clicking cameras, proudly showing off the feathery plumes of his robe and headdress. A good time is had by all and soon it is dark, they’re on the hill, and the dress rehearsal is history.
Night after night the show goes on. Aaron Moore fights his perpetual losing battle with Ammon, Kim Sherwood maintains a regal presence in the Nativity Scene, and thousands receive the message of the Book of Mormon and the restored gospel.
Finally, it’s Saturday night of the second week—time for the final performance. The same enthusiasm that has prevailed for two weeks is still there, but somehow it’s different. Everyone realizes that after this one, it’s all over. That’s it.
The show goes on. Once again the audience is impressed by the dazzling lights, the sound, the music, the story. Many are moved by the message. As the final scene fades, the “house lights” go on, and the crowd begins working its way to the parking lots. But “back stage”—back in the trees on the hill—no one is in a hurry to leave. There are hugs and handshakes, tears of joy at having had the experience, and tears of sorrow at the knowledge that it’s over. The cast assembles and sings the inevitable “God Be with You Till We Meet Again,” and the tears flow even more freely. Kim Sherwood and Holly Phippen, friends forever, say good-bye, as do countless others who have formed similar lasting bonds of friendship.
“I guess I enjoyed it more than I thought I would,” a changed Aaron Moore admits. “It’s kind of a funny feeling to have it over. I already feel a little lonely. Everybody here has the same goals. There’s such a good spirit. I’ve made so many friends and had some experiences I never could have had back home. Yeah, I guess I’d like to come back and do it again.”
“He’ll be back,” chimes in kid sister Katie, 13. “Mom’s already filled out the application form for next year.”

Thwaaack! The aluminum arrow slammed into the 2.5-inch bull’s-eye, dead center. With methodical precision, the archer nocked another shaft and sped it into the same dark disk of the target so closely to the first arrow that the fletchings were crushed. Luck? Robin Hood?
No. Kevin Sant, 25, mild-mannered super-archer. Without parallel in recent years in inter-collegiate archery competition, Kevin has swept four collegiate matches in a row—four gold medals in four meets. His category, bare bow, prohibits him from using the technical regalia designed to improve the performance of the archer. Kevin fires with just the bow, the arrow, and gloves. He fires a 50-pound Bingham bow, which he hand finished himself in two weeks of painstaking labor. He was introduced to archery at Weber State College just three years ago.
During 1976 he competed in matches with different universities throughout the nation. Ranges and rules for matches varied, depending upon the size of the facilities and the desires of the officials. Archers may fire at distances ranging from 18 meters to 60 yards. (At 18 meters, the bull’s-eye is only 2.5 inches in diameter.)
Kevin and his teammates represent their school without any financial support. All participation is voluntary and self-supported. But he does enjoy excellent facilities at the University of Utah and has the advantage of an outstanding coach, Duane Erickson, 16-year veteran of the sport and national champion in 1963. Kevin’s coach was once reputedly capable of hitting a coin tossed into the air at 18 meters.
Kevin is a former member of his elders quorum presidency in Ogden Stake and is now instructing the 10th elders quorum of the Salt Lake City University First Stake.

“Nettie,” I hollered, picking up a pair of socks that were draped over my fishbowl like a lampshade.
“Oops,” giggled Nettie as she charged into our bedroom. She knocked over the stack of books on my nightstand as she tried to stop.
“That’ll be ten cents,” I ordered as I dropped the socks in her hand. Every time Nettie left her stuff on my side of our bedroom, I made her put ten cents in the big jar on my shelf. Mom told me I could do that if I thought it would help. Nettie was really sloppy, and I was the lucky one who had to share a room with her.
Nettie dropped a dime in the jar and jammed her socks into her jumbled-up drawer. She turned to run out, and I pointed to the books she’d scattered all over the floor.
“Good thing I don’t have to pay ten cents apiece for these,” she joked. “I’d owe you my allowance for two years.”
“Funny,” I said. “You wouldn’t have to pay anything if you kept your messes on your own side of the room.”
“I know,” Nettie sighed, trying to stack up my books. She knocked them over again with her elbow before she’d finished.
“Slow down a little,” I grumbled, grabbing my Birds of North America book before she ripped the pictures.
“Taylor is waiting for me to play baseball,” Nettie said. “I’m going to show her how to hit a home run.”
“Oh, just go,” I finally told her.
“Thanks,” she said. She dropped the books on my bed and raced off. Of course, the books bounced back onto the floor. Somehow everything Nettie touched seemed to end up on the floor.
That week, Nettie’s luck didn’t improve. She tossed her soccer uniform and shin pads on my bed, and that added up to sixty cents including the socks. Then she flooded Mom’s pot of violets when she watered them, and the water made puddles on the shelf and streaks down the wall. Next, she broke a plate when she tried to help dry the dishes, knocked her bike over and bent the pedal, and lost one orange tennis shoe.
“If you slowed down you wouldn’t be such a disaster,” I told Nettie. “And you would be able to find your stuff if you were neater.”
Nettie didn’t say anything. She knew I was right.
For one moment, Nettie’s luck changed—Taylor’s family invited her to go camping with them that Friday. But her luck didn’t last long. Friday morning, Nettie came down with the flu.
I went in our room to talk to her. She gave me the same look she’d made the day her pet worm Wiggles died.
“I’m sorry you can’t go camping,” I told her. I was sorry for me too. I had been looking forward to a break from sharing a room.
“That’s OK,” she said. “It’s probably good that I can’t go. I would have wrecked everything!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She sniffled, and not from the flu. “What if I knocked down the tent or broke the lantern or fell in the lake? I do everything wrong. I’m a big disaster. You said so yourself.”
I didn’t know what to do or say as the tears slipped down Nettie’s cheeks. I felt horrible. My heart thumped in my chest. What had I done? I’d never thought about how everything I said made Nettie feel bad about herself. I always told her how she messed up, but I never told her what she did right.
“Nettie, you are a good friend,” I said. “I’m sure Taylor wishes you were there right now. You try to help her. In fact, you try to help everyone.”
“Really?” Nettie asked, wiping her nose.
I nodded. “Yep. You’re always helping Mom with the chores. She appreciates that.”
“She does?”
“Of course,” I told her. “You’re the nicest helper I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
“Thanks,” Nettie said. She was smiling and looking a little better.
When Nettie dozed off to sleep, I quietly took the big jar off my shelf and took it to Mom. I had an idea.
Later that day, Dad took me to the store. I returned with a brightly wrapped box just for Nettie.
“A present?” she asked. “Because I’m sick?”
I shook my head. “No. Because I love you.” I showed her the empty jar. “I never should have made you pay me. The present rightly belongs to you.”
Nettie squealed and hugged me so hard I almost dropped the jar. “You’re the greatest sister,” she said.
“You’re pretty great yourself,” I said.
I looked at the empty jar in my hands and thought about it. Then I opened my closet and put the jar on the top shelf. I didn’t want it anymore. Instead of filling the jar with dimes, I planned on filling Nettie up with good feelings about herself. I knew I could do it because Nettie had shown me how much power my words had. From now on, I would be much more careful about how I used them. I wasn’t the greatest sister yet, but maybe I could be a good one if I tried.

Darcey closed the door behind her. Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table reading. She looked up and said, “You were supposed to be home by twelve.”
Darcey nodded mutely. The expression on her mother’s face told her she was in more trouble than she had been in years. Yet at that moment she felt only an overpowering sense of relief that made her want to run to her and tell her how good it was to be home.
But she could only stand there, her hair and clothes reeking of cigarette smoke and beer. She felt like a dead skunk.
They said nothing more. Her mother got up and turned off the kitchen light. Darcey went up to her room. She undressed, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling, wondering how she could have been so gullible. How could Wendy be like that, she thought.
When she woke up the next morning she was still exhausted, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. So she showered and dressed, then slipped out the front door and walked up the street to Wendy’s house. Wendy’s parents were on a trip to Seattle, so Darcey went around to the deck. Wendy inevitably forgot to lock the sliding glass doors when she got home. As she stepped inside the house, Darcey found Wendy slumped over the kitchen counter.
“Morning,” said Darcey.
Wendy stared and peered around at her, slowly bringing her hands up to her ears. “Not so loud,” she whispered, hoarsely.
“You look awful,” said Darcey.
“Just a hangover.”
Darcey took the car keys out of her pocket and placed them carefully on the counter.
“Thanks,” said Wendy. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell, did you?”
Darcey shook her head.
“Yeah, my dad would kill me if he found out. You know, you tell your parents; they tell my parents; everybody gets into trouble over nothing.”
“Me, tell? I’m the one who got the ticket.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Wendy, this is serious. I’ve got to go to court. What am I supposed to say?”
“That we were in my crummy old Escort, and no harm done. Okay?”
Her voice had taken on a scolding tone. Darcey looked past her, at the design of the wallpaper on the far wall. When she looked back, Wendy had fallen asleep.
Darcey left her and went home, heading for her room. The car was all Wendy cared about now, and that had been the first really stupid lie of the whole evening. How could she have thought that Wendy really had permission to drive her father’s sports car. But make one lie believable and the rest fall right in line. Darcey had been told they were going to a party at Steve Margerson’s, but somehow they ended up in Schenectady at Union College.
“It’ll be great,” Wendy had insisted, over Darcey’s objections. “Besides, you’re in my car. So you’re stuck. Anyway, nobody’s going to make you do anything, and it’s about time you went to a real party, one that’s not for little kids. Besides, Glenn says they’re all really smart. You can talk about intelligent stuff with them.”
Yeah, Darcey thought bitterly, intelligent stuff. Wendy had told everybody that her brother Glenn—a Union College junior—had invited them. She had told them she was two years older than she was. She told lies the whole evening, while Darcey hid in a dark corner of the living room, losing her hearing to the blast of the stereo, nibbling on potato chips, and not daring to touch anything liquid.
Then in the momentary lull between songs, someone complained to Wendy, “I thought you said she’d be fun.”
“Oh.” Wendy had replied. “She’s the designated driver.”
At least they stopped trying to get her to drink after that. But by the time she had convinced Wendy to go home, she found herself with the responsibility of taxiing inebriated party-goers around uptown Schenectady.
She had finally headed home across the I-890 business loop, thankful that none of her passengers had thrown up on her. In fact, now, on a bright Saturday morning, with an empty stomach and a headache, she could have written the whole episode off as a learning experience—if only she hadn’t taken the Broadway exit.
Darcey sighed. Whatever was going to happen would happen. The one redeeming consequence of really messing up was that her parents would take a good long time figuring out a proper punishment.
At school on Monday, Mary McMacken rushed up to Darcey and said breathlessly, “You really went to a party at Union and got stopped for drunk driving?”
“I didn’t get stopped for drunk driving,” Darcey gasped. “Who told you that?”
Mary was taken aback. “Wendy,” she said. “Anyway, how was it? I mean, the party. Were there any neat guys there?”
“No!” Darcey replied, with a vehemence that stunned Mary into silence. And then she couldn’t think of anything to say, so she turned around and walked away.
But Darcey couldn’t get away from it. All of her friends were just as inquisitive—or for reasons Darcey could not understand—just as impressed. The day was almost over before she caught up with Wendy. “Hi, Darcey,” Wendy said, pleasantly.
“You said you weren’t going to tell,” Darcey burst out. “Everybody thinks I got stopped for drunk driving.”
Wendy shrugged. “It was a drunk-driving checkpoint, Darcey.”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“So what? For once in your life you’re actually an interesting person. I was only doing you a favor.”
“I don’t want to be an interesting person,” said Darcey, biting her lip, knowing she hadn’t said what she meant.
“Darcey,” Wendy said in an exasperated, condescending tone of voice, “I mean, sometimes you can be a real, uh, oh, forget it.” Wendy briskly walked away.
Wendy’s words stung all the more because Darcey knew that for a brief moment the party had sounded daring and exciting. But all she wanted now was to be her uninteresting old self.
Darcey threw her books on her bed. Then suddenly she caught her breath. The room was clean, too clean. Of course, it was wash day. She quickly rushed downstairs, into the kitchen, around the corner, down to the basement. She stopped before reaching the last step.
Her mother glanced over her shoulder at her while folding towels. “How was school today, Darcey?”
Instead of answering, she sort of nodded. She turned around and went back to her room.
When her mother came in Darcey didn’t look up. Her mother sat on the bed next to her. She took a folded slip of paper out of her pocket and handed it to her.
Darcey took the ticket glumly.
“Darcey,” said her mother, choosing her words very carefully, “I know it must seem like your father and I go to great lengths thinking up reasons to discipline you. But we have very vivid imaginations, and we inevitably imagine the worst that could have happened. What we really want to know is that you’re all right.”
Darcey turned to her mother, and the tears came. She explained what had happened, about driving home, the checkpoint at the Broadway exit, and the police. She’d had to do all those things she’d only seen before on TV—walking along a line on the pavement, touching her nose with her fingertips, trying to convince the police she wasn’t drunk. And she hadn’t had her purse with her, so she didn’t have her driver’s license.
After what had seemed an interminable conversation with his sergeant, the officer handed her the ticket and said, “Driving without a license. Court date’s in two weeks. Bring a parent or guardian.”
The whole time Wendy had staggered about shouting, “Darcey, c’mon. Let’s go home. Darcey, I wanna go.” The officer had escorted Wendy to the car, buckled her in and said, “Don’t let her have the keys.”
This episode would have to go down in Darcey’s life as an unapproachable low in her definition of personal humiliation.
Two weeks later she was in court as the bailiff called her name. Darcey and her father approached the bench. The judge examined her file briefly and then turned to his clerk and said, “Mel, there’s an attachment here.”
The clerk shuffled through his papers and came up with a torn, half-sheet from a legal pad. He handed it to the judge, who read it and said, “Well, young lady. It seems we have some extenuating circumstances here. Let me see. The car belonged to your friend and she had driven you both to the party where a bit of drinking was going on—against the law for someone of your age, I might add.”
“Yes, sir,” said Darcey, wondering how he had known all that.
The judge saw her expression and held up the paper. “Note from the officer on the scene. Well, next time you might consider a taxi. The court appreciates the reasons you drove without a license, but ends don’t justify the means. Nevertheless, I don’t think we have an actionable offense here. Though I might suggest to your father here that a month or two wouldn’t be too long a time for your driving privileges, being what they may, to be suspended. And if you haven’t taken your defensive driving course yet, I will have the court require it.” He banged his gavel on the table and said, “Case dismissed. Next case.”
“Well, let’s go,” Darcey’s father said simply.
To her dismay, Darcey’s father took the judge’s advice seriously. She went six weeks without driving.
As for Wendy, no one told. Not Darcey, not her parents. But a week after the incident Wendy’s father found a crushed beer can under the front seat of his car, and it was a brand he never touched. The cat pretty much worked its way out of the bag after that and Wendy ended up being grounded for a million years.
And everybody agreed that it didn’t make her a more interesting person at all.

Many years ago when I was practicing law, I was consulted by a woman who wanted a divorce from her husband on grounds that, in my opinion, seemed justified. After the divorce was concluded, I did not see her again for many years. In a chance meeting with her on the street, I noticed that the years of loneliness and discouragement were evident in her once-beautiful face.
After we passed a few pleasantries, she was quick to say that life had not been rich and rewarding for her and that she was tired of facing the struggle alone. Then she startled me by disclosing, “Bad as it was, if I had to do it over again and had known then what I do now, I would not have sought the divorce. This is worse.”

That Kolwezi district conference in 2013 was memorable for all involved. The district president asked the Kinkondja brethren, to share their powerful testimonies in priesthood meeting and in the Sunday session of conference. They had arrived very tired and very early on Saturday morning. By the end of the conference, they—and all who heard their stories and their testimonies—left refreshed, fulfilled, and feeling God’s love in their hearts.

I had an experience like yours. I wanted so much to be able to tell the bishop, but I thought he would have little respect for me as a member of his ward. I prayed about it for a long time. I was finally comforted enough by the Spirit to be able to tell the bishop about my problem. After I told him what I had done, he let me know that what I had done was wrong but that he still loved me and so does my Heavenly Father. He let me know that there is a way back and that is by repentance. Repentance is such a wonderful process. I beg you to give it a try. The Lord is waiting for you!
Name withheld

Then there was a Sunday School teacher—never to be forgotten, ever to be remembered. We met for the first time on a Sunday morning. She accompanied the Sunday School president into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who actually requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself or herself, and then she asked questions that gave her an understanding and an insight into the background of each boy, each girl. She told us of her childhood in Midway, Utah; and as she described that beautiful valley, she made its beauty live, and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much. She never raised her voice. Somehow rudeness and boisterousness were incompatible with the beauty of her lessons. She taught us that the present is here and that we must live in it. She made the scriptures actually come to life. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this one was going to be.
The summer months faded into autumn; autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.
None of us will forget that gray morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were depression times; money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.
The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons.
Even today when we sing that old favorite—
Thanks for the Sabbath School. Hail to the day
When evil and error are fleeing away.
Thanks for our teachers who labor with care
That we in the light of the gospel may share.5
—we think of Lucy Gertsch, our Sunday School teacher, for we loved Lucy, and Lucy loved us.

Another lesson I learned on the football field was at the bottom of a pile of 10 other players. It was the Rocky Mountain Conference championship game, and the play called for me to run the ball up the middle to score the go-ahead touchdown. I took the handoff and plunged into the line. I knew I was close to the goal line, but I didn’t know how close. Although I was pinned at the bottom of the pile, I reached my fingers forward a couple of inches and I could feel it. The goal line was two inches away.
At that moment I was tempted to push the ball forward. I could have done it. And when the refs finally pulled the players off the pile, I would have been a hero. No one would have ever known.
I had dreamed of this moment from the time I was a boy. And it was right there within my reach. But then I remembered the words of my mother. “Joseph,” she had often said to me, “do what is right, no matter the consequence. Do what is right and things will turn out OK.”
I wanted so desperately to score that touchdown. But more than being a hero in the eyes of my friends, I wanted to be a hero in the eyes of my mother. And so I left the ball where it was—two inches from the goal line.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a defining experience. Had I moved the ball, I could have been a champion for a moment, but the reward of temporary glory would have carried with it too steep and too lasting a price. It would have engraved upon my conscience a scar that would have stayed with me the remainder of my life. I knew I must do what is right.