Gospel Story Finder

President Nelson has designated this year as “a bicentennial period commemorating 200 years since God the Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to Joseph Smith in a vision.” President Nelson invited us to make a personal plan to prepare ourselves for this historic conference, which commemoration he said would be “a hinge point in the history of the Church, and your part is vital.”
Like me, perhaps you heard his message and asked yourself, “In what way is my part vital?” Perhaps you read and prayed about the events of the Restoration. Perhaps, more than ever before, you read the accounts of those few times when God the Father introduced His Beloved Son. Perhaps you read of the instances when the Savior spoke to the children of our Heavenly Father. I know I did all of those things and more.
I found references in my reading to the priesthood of God and the opening of dispensations. I was humbled as I realized that my preparation for this conference was a hinge point in my personal history. I felt changes in my heart. I felt new gratitude. I felt filled with joy at the prospect of being invited to participate in this celebration of the ongoing Restoration.

It was only recently that Frisbee moved across the sometimes-thin line that separates toys from sporting goods, leaving behind the Yo-Yo, the pogo stick, and Super Balls. It used to be that Frisbee was about as competitive as two kids on the ends of a teeter-totter. That was before they started the annual worldwide Frisbee championship and the competition for the Julius Nachazel Memorial Trophy. Nachazel is a somewhat shadowy figure who reportedly showed up at a Frisbee tournament, chased an errant toss in the woods, and was never seen again!

—The most difficult thing for Mike Dalby during graduation week was to keep from smiling so wide his ears would fall off.
“You’ve got to meet my parents,” he said, beaming. “They’re the greatest people.” And he talked about changes at home since he joined the Church. “My mom’s quit drinking coffee! And when I started talking about genealogy with her, she said to send her all the sheets and she did the whole thing—all the research, writing all the letters, putting everything together, and typing it up, everything! My sisters thought that if I joined the Mormon church I’d walk around in a dark suit, grow a huge beard like Brigham Young, and lose all my ambition. But I think they’ve learned differently. And dad’s so proud of me graduating.”
Mike’s parents came all the way from Stephenville, Texas, to see him commissioned as a second lieutenant and to watch him march with the wing staff. “There are 40 squadrons, divided into four groups of ten squadrons each. The groups form the wing. Wing staff has four seniors and four juniors who are in charge of the cadet squadrons as far as we can be without getting into the officer chain of command. It’s a good opportunity to work with high level officers with a frequency you’ll probably never have again,” Mike explained.
Mike joined the Church during his junior year. As a member of the debate team (one of more than 100 extracurricular clubs and activities cadets can participate in), Mike kept running into LDS debaters on other teams.
“Our forensics team is in the same district as BYU and Weber State and Southern Utah State College, and I just started talking to people about the Mormon church. Of course, they loved to talk about it, and I listened. I had come to a point in my cadet career when things were going pretty bad. I had failed a class and my grades were getting lower and lower. I was having some problems with drinking. I had always been interested in religion, but I realized that my church at home had been more of a social thing than a spiritual thing,” Mike said.
“During spring break I came up to BYU and visited people there and talked with some of the professors in the department of religion,” Mike continued. “The people were fantastic, just great. Then I went and talked with the missionaries. One of them came from almost the same background I came from, and he was one of the most spiritually strong people I’ve ever met.”
Mike had a debate team friend, Marty Wojtysiak, and together they explored the gospel. “All of a sudden these people started giving me answers to questions I’d always had but had been unable to answer,” Marty said. “I thought, ‘Wow, that’s interesting. I want to learn more.’ Mike and I listened to the discussions together, and together we decided to join the Church. The semester we got baptized was the best semester both of us ever had, both grade-wise and on the military side of things.”
Since then Mike and Marty have come full circle in the gospel—now they’re sharing it with others. At a class party there was a bowl of punch, and Mike didn’t know if it had alcohol in it. “One of the biggest drinkers in the squadron turned to me and said, ‘Don’t drink it. There’s alcohol in it, and I don’t want you to be drinking.’ He found me a glass of fruit juice instead. At first the other cadets kidded me about joining the Church, but now they watch out for me. They even change their speech when I walk into the room. And my mother—at first she wondered what was going on, but what mother can get mad at you when you tell her, ‘I’m not going to be drinking anymore; I’m not going to be cussing anymore; I’m going to be a very nice young man’?”
“I’ve baptized a couple of people I helped teach about the Church,” Marty said, “and that’s just a joy! Jay Decker is a freshman I baptized—he’s six-foot-six and I’m only five-foot-ten! Like always, everyone showed up at the baptism. A cadet gave a talk on baptism, a cadet talked about confirmation, one played the piano, one led the songs, and Ted confirmed Jay.”
Recently the cadets celebrated the anniversary of Mike and Marty’s entrance into the Church by presenting them with a cake with a single candle. Incidentally, the two converts have done all right in collegiate debate, too. Marty won one of the two events he reached in the national finals, and Mike reached the finals in three events.

Along with receiving the Aaronic Priesthood and passing the sacrament, Isaac also attended the temple to perform baptisms. His father baptized him first, but then came a surprise:
“I got to baptize my brother!” Matthew says.
“I never expected Matthew to baptize me,” Isaac says. “But he’s a priest now, so he could. It was really a cool experience. I could feel the Holy Ghost.”

But a week before the national championships, something that could have proved to be the biggest roadblock of all obstructed his path. Ed’s older brother Robert was killed in a boating accident.
“It’s tough to deal with death,” Ed commented. “Even for us, with the knowledge we have of what lies hereafter, it’s still hard. Knowing that we’re not going to be able to see that loved one or be with them or share their many talents is a loss, no matter how strong a testimony you have. You just have to pull together as a family. And the knowledge that someday you will be together again, even though you won’t see them for a long time, helps.
“The only thing that kept me going through it was that I knew deep down inside that my brother would be disappointed if I didn’t run,” Ed added.
Ed did run, and finished the NCAA finals first in both events.

On the day the Montclair Third Ward was created from parts of three existing wards, the new bishop, Bishop Trask, asked to speak to the youth in his ward for a few minutes after church.
Those waiting for him were mostly all strangers to each other. The ones who came from the same wards sat in small groups and talked about how they wished things could have been left the way they were.
Bishop Trask came in and looked around the room. “Look, I know this is hard on you, but if we try to make it work, the Lord will bless us. And before long all of you will be close friends.”
Bishop Trask looked at the oldest-looking girl in the room. “Excuse me, what’s your name?”
“Dyan. It sounds like D-I-A-N-E, but it’s spelled D-Y-A-N.”
“Which ward are you from?”
“Montclair First. I was the Laurel class president.”
“Glad to have you with us.”
Next he picked out a priest-age boy. “And what’s your name?”
“David Grant. It sounds like D-A-V-I-D and it’s spelled D-A-V-I-D.” David glanced at Dyan and smiled. “I used to be in Cedar Park Second.”
“Could you two stay for a few more minutes? I have to meet with the stake president for just a few minutes, but I would like to discuss some things we could do in this ward as far as youth activities.”
After a few more minutes of introductions, Bishop Trask scheduled another meeting and then excused everybody. A minute later, the room was empty except for David on one side of an aisle of chairs and Dyan on the other.
“Well?” she finally asked.
“Well what?”
“Shouldn’t we talk about this?” she asked.
“What’s there to talk about? I lost all my friends. Not a single one of them is left in the new ward.”
“I lost friends too,” she said.
“But my friends and I were really close.”
She shook her head but didn’t say anything.
David continued, “Cedar Park Second Ward had the best basketball team in the stake. We would have won the tournament this year. I’m the only one from the team in the new ward. Did you look around the room? I’ve never seen so many short guys in my life.”
“I’m going to miss the girls in my Laurel class. We were all really close.”
“This is my senior year. I wish they could have waited a year before making the split.”
“It’s my senior year too.”
“The thing I want to know is why we didn’t get a chance to vote on this,” David said. He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling.
“They asked for people to raise their hands if they sustained the wards’ being split.”
“I know, but that’s not exactly the same thing,” he said.
“Well, it’s common consent. Did you raise your hand to sustain the split?”
“Yeah, sure, everybody did.” David crumpled a piece of paper into a ball and lobbed it toward the wastebasket. It went in. “Three points.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Anybody can do that.”
“You can’t.”
She got up and retrieved the paper from the wastebasket, returned to her seat, and shot. It went in. She looked over and smiled.
“You were closer to the basket than I was,” he complained.
“Maybe six inches.”
“More like two feet.”
“All right, let’s make it fair,” she said.
They stacked all the chairs except two, which they set up side by side in the center of the room. And then they placed the wastepaper basket midway between them on the opposite wall.
Five minutes later they both had made every shot.
“You’re banking the ball off the wall,” she complained.
“So?”
“Anybody can do that.”
“I don’t need the wall,” he said.
They moved the chairs even farther back, then set the wastebasket away from the wall.
After five more minutes, he was forced to admit, “You’re pretty good.”
“I know,” she said with a smile. “I went to the state basketball tournament last year.”
“You did?”
“We made it to the finals. We were ahead most of the game but ended up losing by two points.
“Did you play?”
“Yeah, until I fouled out.”
“How many points did you have?”
“Seventeen.”
“That’s really good.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Not good enough.”
He put the wad of paper in the wastebasket and returned the basket to the corner where it belonged, then came and sat down next to Dyan.
“What are we going to tell the bishop when he comes back?” Dyan asked.
“I don’t know. If they could’ve just waited a year.”
“They didn’t, though.” She paused. “I’m sure the stake presidency prayed about it.”
“I suppose.”
“And the bishop seems nice,” Dyan said.
“I guess so, but he’s not like Bishop Campbell, that’s for sure.”
“He’s not like my old bishop either. But look, I doubt this is very easy for him.”
He scowled at her. “You’re going to say we need to set an example so we can make this work, aren’t you?”
“What would be wrong if I did say that?” she asked.
“I’m still sulking.”
“All right. I’ll give you two minutes to sulk, starting now.”
She watched the clock while he muttered all the reasons why he wished the wards had not been divided.
“Time’s up,” she announced.
He looked over at her. “Already? I was just getting started.”
“We have a new bishop now and in a few minutes, he’s coming back to ask for our help.”
“There’s too many short people in the new ward. The boys’ team will never do any good in basketball.”
“You’ll make up for it.”
He smiled. “You think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe so.”
Just then, Bishop Trask entered the room. He looked around. “Thanks for stacking all the chairs,” he said. “That’s very considerate for the people who will be cleaning the building tomorrow.”
“It was David’s idea,” Dyan said. “We both helped put a piece of paper in the wastebasket too.”
“Several times, actually,” David said with a big grin.
“Bishop, we’re ready to do whatever it takes to make this new ward work out,” Dyan said.
“That’s wonderful! Thank you so much. Do you have a few minutes to talk about how we can help the youth pull together?”
“Sure, no problem. I think we should have a prayer before we get started,” Dyan said.
“Thanks a lot,” David whispered to Dyan as they knelt side by side while the bishop brought a chair over to where they were sitting.
“What’s wrong now?” she asked.
“I was going to suggest we say a prayer.”
“I can’t wait around for you all the time.”
“You won’t have to,” he said.
“Good. That’s the way it should be.”
The bishop returned.
“We’re going to help you any way we can, Bishop,” David said.
“I just said that,” Dyan said.
“I know, but I just wanted the bishop to know I feel the same way.”
The bishop looked confused. “Uh, maybe, I’ll just say the prayer if that’s all right.”
“Whatever you say, Bishop. We’ll support you in whatever you do,” David said. He then looked at Dyan and winked.

I’m reminded of a phone call I received several years ago from our daughter, Michelle. With tender emotion she said, “Mom, I just had the most incredible experience with Ashley.” Ashley is her daughter who was five years old at the time. Michelle described the morning as being one of constant squabbling between Ashley and three-year-old Andrew—one wouldn’t share and the other would hit. After helping them work things out, Michelle went to check the baby.

Soon, Ashley came running in, angry that Andrew wasn’t sharing. Michelle reminded Ashley of the commitment they had made in home evening to be more kind to each other.

She asked Ashley if she wanted to pray and ask for Heavenly Father’s help, but Ashley, still very angry, responded, “No.” When asked if she believed Heavenly Father would answer her prayer, Ashley said she didn’t know. Her mother asked her to try and gently took her hands and knelt down with her.

Michelle suggested that Ashley could ask Heavenly Father to help Andrew share—and help her be kind. The thought of Heavenly Father helping her little brother share must have piqued Ashley’s interest, and she began to pray, first asking Heavenly Father to help Andrew share. As she asked Him to help her be kind, she began to cry. Ashley ended her prayer and buried her head on her mother’s shoulder. Michelle held her and asked why she was crying. Ashley said she didn’t know.

Her mother said, “I think I know why you’re crying. Do you feel good inside?” Ashley nodded, and her mother continued, “This is the Spirit helping you feel this way. It’s Heavenly Father’s way of telling you He loves you and will help you.”

She asked Ashley if she believed this, if she believed Heavenly Father could help her. With her little eyes full of tears, Ashley said she did.

I want to do something really nice for Halloween, Mary Kathleen,” Samantha said to her doll as she laid her on the bed. “It’s only Saturday. We ought to be able to think of something to do by Monday that would surprise everyone.” Samantha thought and thought as Mary Kathleen seemed to stare at her with big blue eyes. “It’s harder to think of nice tricks to play on Halloween than bad ones,” Samantha moaned.
Samantha wandered down to the kitchen, where her mother was baking cookies. “Mmmm, they smell good, Mom. Can I help?”
“Sure, honey. I’ve rolled out the dough. Will you cut out the cookies?” As Samantha placed them on the cookie sheet, they reminded her of faces. Suddenly she smiled brightly and held up a big round cookie. “Mom, can I make some witch cookies and take them to all our neighbors on Monday? It could be a Halloween family home evening treat for them.”
“I thought that you wanted to go trick-or-treating,” Mom said.
“I can do that, too, if I have time. But I want to do something nice for our neighbors first.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” said Mom. “Let’s get started. I’ll make an extra batch of cookie dough.”
While the extra cookies were baking, Samantha made white icing for the witches’ faces, red for their eyes and noses, and chocolate for their hats. Then she started decorating the faces. She had to work as fast as she could to be finished by bedtime.
Monday after school, Samantha took a stack of paper lunch sacks, wrote “Happy Halloween” on each sack, and placed ten cookies in each one. Then she put on her witch costume and made up her face to look like her cookies. Mom laughed. “I don’t know which looks scarier,” she said, “you or your cookies.”
It looked like a storm was on its way, so Samantha quickly put her sacks into a small laundry basket and started down the street. First she went to the Porters’. They answered the door so fast that all she could think to say was, “Happy Halloween.” She giggled and waved as she left. Samantha decided to go to the fire station next. Brother Sanchez, her Primary teacher, worked there. I’ll really surprise him, she thought as she headed for the station. On the way Samantha saw a group of her friends from school.
“Hi, Sam,” one of them yelled. “What do you have in your basket?”
“Witch cookies to give out for Halloween.”
“You must be kidding! You’re supposed to get treats on Halloween, not give them away. Think of all the fun and goodies that you’re going to miss.”
“I’ll go trick-or-treating as soon as I get these delivered,” Samantha explained. But as the other girls headed for the new subdivision, Samantha thought, Maybe I will miss out on a lot.
Just then Samantha felt a big drop of rain. Then another and another. Suddenly the rain was pouring down. Samantha looked for a place to get out of the downpour. The nearest building was a shelter for the homeless. Samantha ran through the front door.
“Look what the storm blew in,” a kind-looking man said. “A real live witch with a basket full of tricks.” Samantha looked around. The room was small but warm. Several people, including children, were sitting around a long table, eating crackers and hot soup. Some of them were shy, but most smiled at her. “Would you like a bowl of soup to warm you?” the man asked.
Samantha was cold and starting to get hungry. “Could I call my mom first to let her know where I am and ask her if it’s all right?” she asked.
“Sure. There’s a phone over there.”
Samantha called her mom, who said she could stay. “I’ll come and pick you up in a half hour. Then you might still have time to go trick-or-treating before family home evening.”
Everyone teased Samantha about her laundry basket of tricks as they ate their soup. The more they teased, the more she smiled, because she knew what she was going to do. When they had all finished eating, Samantha felt warm and comfortable. Everyone else there seemed to enjoy having a Halloween witch with them. She got up and picked up her basket.
“Before I go, I want to show you what’s in my basket. Instead of tricks, I have treats for you.” She passed out the cookies until everyone had some.
“Oh, look—witch cookies! Real witch cookies, just for us!” exclaimed a little five-year-old girl as she smiled at Samantha. Everyone thanked Samantha, and she felt happy about what she had done.
When her mom came to pick her up, it was still raining hard, and Samantha knew that she would be doing no trick-or-treating that night. But it didn’t matter to Samantha—it had still been the best Halloween ever!

My first district leader’s motto seemed to be “Work smarter, not harder.” I don’t agree with the second half of this motto, but if I had it to do over, I would certainly try to work smarter. My district leader was quite creative and quite successful. For instance, he organized a volleyball team among the youth in his branch, and they invited their friends to play. It was a fun and simple way to help the youth be missionaries. Teaching opportunities and conversions resulted from this nonthreatening approach to sharing the gospel.

The bump in the freeway wasn’t supposed to be there. At least that was my big brother’s excuse. Andy might have been driving a little too fast, if you ask me.
“I hope Lehi’s ship is tied tight,” I grunted as our truck sailed over the bump.
“No problem, sis,” said Andy.
But just then, Lehi’s ship broke loose and sailed out of the back of our truck.
“Our ship is sunk!” yelled my seven-year-old brother, Tony, who is never without words.
“There goes the main prop for our Primary play,” I moaned to myself.
Cars screeched. I scrunched down between my brothers, waiting for a crash, but it never came. All the screeching tires behind us stopped before running into the prop or each other.
Andy steered our truck to the side of the road. “How could this happen?” he groaned as he stumbled out of the truck. Tony leaped out too. I stayed scrunched in my seat, not wanting to see our once-beautiful ship.
“Wow, will you look at this!” cried Tony. “Lisa, come look.”
I slid out. There, spread over all three lanes of the freeway, was the ship we had lovingly worked on for weeks.
“It isn’t all broken,” said Tony. “Maybe we could put it back together.”
“No way,” I said with a scowl. “The play starts in four hours.”
“I bet there’s a way. If I had a hammer, I could do it,” Tony argued.
Cars were lining up behind Lehi’s ship faster than we lined up for lunch at school. High in the sky, I could see a traffic report helicopter. I could hear a nearby car radio blaring, “I’ve never seen anything like this before, but it looks like an old sailing ship has washed ashore on the west freeway. It’s blocking all northbound lanes.”
Cars were honking. People were leaping out of their cars and marching toward us. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to hide.
A young man in a white uniform was the first to reach us. “It looks like you left your ship behind, too,” he drawled. “I left mine over in the Navy yard. I didn’t think I’d be running into another ship quite so soon.”
“Are you in the Navy?” exclaimed Tony.
“Sure am, son.”
A big man who looked like one of those football players Dad watches on TV ran up beside us. “That thing really went flying. I’m glad it didn’t hit me.” He motioned to Andy. “Look, if you’ll pull your truck right around here, I think a few of us can load it for you.”
Another man was peering dumbfoundedly at the wreckage through his thick glasses. “What is this thing, anyway?”
“It’s Lehi’s ship,” piped up Tony.
Oh no! I thought. I hoped Tony wasn’t going to give his Book of Mormon discourse right here on the freeway.
The young sailor scratched his short-cropped red hair. “Lehi’s ship?” he said thoughtfully. “It seems like I’ve heard of that somewhere before.”
“It’s from the Book of Mormon,” answered Tony.
“That’s it!” The sailor snapped his fingers. “Isn’t he the guy who sailed across the ocean with a bunch of sons who were always fighting?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of how the story goes,” said Tony.
“I knew it!” said the young man. “One of my shipmates told me the whole story. He gave me that book to read.”
I didn’t say a word.
By the time Andy pulled his truck up beside our broken ship, the crowd had heard practically the entire Book of Mormon—both Tony’s version and the sailor’s version.
At least a dozen people crowded around to help hoist the prop back into the truck. Tony bounded into the back of it. “Up this way a little,” he directed.
I stood there with a long face. One man looked down at me as he held the ship. “It’s tough luck about your ship. I heard your play is supposed to start—”
Everyone stopped talking and even moving. Wailing down the other side of the freeway were flashing red and blue lights. Two highway patrol cars crossed the median strip, then swung around to where we were. It was the only way they could reach us. Officers from the cars jumped out. One of them scowled as he approached the group surrounding the ship. He seemed oblivious to the fact that they were holding the biggest section of the ship in midair. “Who owns this truck?” he snapped.
“I do,” Andy said glumly.
I felt a little bit sorry for him.
“Young man, do you know what time of day it is?” asked the officer.
“Yes, sir. It’s rush hour.”
I avoided looking at Andy by watching the officer’s thick mustache twitch up and down as he spoke.
“Do you know that you have traffic backed up for over two miles down the freeway?”
“This is no time for a lecture, Jerry,” said another highway patrolman. “They need help.”
The first officer looked around, then nodded, his scowl lessening. With the help of the highway patrol officers, Lehi’s ship was quickly lifted back into the truck. Everyone, including me, scurried across the lanes, retrieving the rest of the wreckage.
Suddenly a short, wiry man trotted up beside me. “My car is trapped way back there,” he panted. “I just heard on the traffic report that you Mormons were having a big play tonight but that your ship got smashed on the freeway. I just wanted to tell you that I’m a carpenter and, well, maybe I could help. I don’t live too far from your church, and I could get my tools. …”
“That’s very kind,” I said, embarrassed by all the attention. “But we’ve already caused you—”
“I think that would be great!” Tony interrupted.
“Terrific! I’ll come over as soon as I get home.” The carpenter waved as he trotted back to his car.
Finally Andy, Tony, and I climbed back into the truck. Andy turned the key in the ignition. The word Mormon jumped out at us from the radio.
“Those Mormons are supposed to be performing tonight,” said the traffic reporter, “but I think they’ve put on a bigger show this afternoon on the freeway.”
I slunk down in my seat, and Andy groaned. Tony gloated, “Hear that! We’re famous.”
When we turned into the church parking lot, Lehi’s ship was not the only thing trailing close behind us. Car after car turned into the parking lot. The big burly man came. The redheaded sailor came. Even the highway patrol officer with the mustache followed us. The parking lot was filling up with our friends from the freeway. When the carpenter arrived, everyone began hammering as fast as they could.
When it was time for the curtain to go up, Lehi’s ship still wasn’t quite finished. “Don’t worry,” said the sailor. “I wouldn’t want to miss sailing across the ocean with Lehi.” He got up on top and held a big timber in place.
The big burly man and the highway patrol officer steadied both ends of the ship, and the carpenter played a Nephite still at work.
When the play was over and the curtain was coming down, the applause was very loud. I peeked through the curtains. Never had I seen the cultural hall so crowded! People I’d never seen before were lining the walls and peeking through the doorways.
Suddenly someone crawled under the curtain and faced the audience. It was Tony! “Please clap real loud for the people on the freeway. They helped us put Lehi’s ship back together again.”
This time the crowd stood up and clapped for a long time. Tony grinned at me, and I wasn’t even embarrassed.
Afterward, instead of leaving, people rushed up to the stage. “Can you tell me more about that story?” they asked.
I noticed one lady tug on the sleeve of the redheaded sailor. “Do you know where I could get a copy of that book—what’s it called?”
“Why, sure!” exclaimed the sailor. “It’s called the Book of Mormon. It’s wonderful. I happen to be reading it now, myself. Let me tell you more about it.”
“We’d both be glad to tell you all about it,” Tony chimed in.

In 1989, our family of seven was returning from a ward outing. It was late. Lynette was expecting our sixth child. She felt a strong prompting to fasten her seat belt, which she had forgotten to do. Shortly thereafter we came around a bend in the road; a car crossed the line into our lane. Going about 70 miles (112 km) an hour, I swerved to avoid hitting the oncoming car. Our van rolled, skidded down the highway, and slid off the road, finally coming to a stop, landing with the passenger side in the dirt.
The next thing I remember hearing was Lynette’s voice: “Shayne, we need to get out through your door.” I was hanging in the air by my seat belt. It took a few seconds to get oriented. We started lifting each of the children out of the van through my window, which was now the ceiling of the van. They were crying, wondering what had happened.
We soon realized that our 10-year-old daughter, Emily, was missing. We yelled her name, but there was no response. Ward members, who were also traveling home, were at the scene frantically looking for her. It was so dark. I looked in the van again with a flashlight and, to my horror, saw Emily’s tiny body trapped under the van. I called out desperately, “We have to lift the van off of Emily.” I grabbed the roof and pulled back. There were only a few others lifting, but the van miraculously flipped onto its wheels, exposing Emily’s lifeless body.
Emily was not breathing. Her face was the color of a purple plum. I said, “We need to give her a blessing.” A dear friend and ward member knelt with me, and by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, in the name of Jesus Christ, we commanded her to live. In that moment, Emily took a long raspy breath.
After what seemed like hours, the ambulance finally arrived. Emily was rushed to the hospital. She had a collapsed lung and a severed tendon in her knee. Brain damage was a concern because of the time she was without oxygen. Emily was in a coma for a day and a half. We continued to pray and fast for her. She was blessed with a full recovery. Today, Emily and her husband, Kevin, are the parents of six daughters.
Miraculously, everyone else was able to walk away. The baby Lynette was carrying was Tyson. He too was spared any harm and was born the next February. Eight months later, after receiving his earthly body, Tyson returned home to Heavenly Father. He is our guardian angel son. We feel his influence in our family and look forward to being with him again.
Those who lifted the van off of Emily observed that the van seemed to weigh nothing. I knew that heavenly angels had joined with earthly angels to lift the vehicle off of Emily’s body. I also know that Emily was brought back to life by the power of the holy priesthood.

I joined the Church at age 16 and at 17, against all odds, left England for America to escape a life of poverty. I was completely alone and frightened, but I was determined. I had one plan: to become rich and famous. A few years before, I had seen a documentary about orphanages in Romania that deeply impacted my young, fierce heart. I was no stranger to childhood trauma, so I set a goal to get enough money to fund an orphanage and truly make a difference in the world.

Josh followed Dad into the basement storage room, where he rummaged through some boxes and pulled out a shiny trophy with a football player on top.
Josh’s eyes grew big. “An MVP award! And it has your name on it!”
Dad nodded. “I received this when I was a junior—the first junior ever to earn it at our school. I thought I was the toughest, meanest, most powerful seventeen-year-old on earth. I played on both sides of the ball, but I preferred defense because I really got to unload on people. I loved to hear the crowd cheer when I made a hit.”
Josh stroked the trophy lovingly. “Why isn’t this where everybody can see it?”
Dad shrugged and put the trophy back into the box. “It just doesn’t seem that important anymore. Maybe that’s because my senior year I got an award that taught me a lot more.” He opened his wallet and took out a plastic bracelet.
Josh looked it over. “It’s like the bracelet Mom wore in the hospital when she had Stacey. But this one has your name on it.”
Dad nodded. “I earned it in the homecoming game. I’d intercepted a pass on the other team’s twenty, and only one man was between me and the end zone. He was so small, I didn’t bother putting any moves on him. I just lowered my head and charged. When I came to, I was lying on the field, and, Josh, I couldn’t move! This big, tough, proud football player was lying there eating grass—crying like a baby and scared out of his mind.”
Josh didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine his strong, calm father frightened and helpless. “What happened?” he asked at last.
“They strapped me to some kind of a contraption, carried me behind the stands, and put me into an ambulance. I could hear the crowd cheering, and I thought, They’re watching the game again. They’ve forgotten all about me.
“My father was out of town, so my mother rode in the ambulance with me. Brother Jones got in too. Besides Dad, he was the only Melchizedek Priesthood holder in our little town. He was also the math teacher at school, and I didn’t like him much. He was small and soft-spoken, and he called the students ‘ladies and gentlemen.’ We all laughed at him behind his back.
“My mother asked if he would give me a blessing, and he said, ‘I’d be honored.’ He anointed me with oil. Then he put his small hands on my head and told me that Heavenly Father knew me and loved me. He said that people in wheelchairs can still serve valiantly, but that I had some work to do on foot. He promised me that I would walk again.”
“And you did!”
“It turned out that my spinal cord was only bruised. My recovery took a long time, though, and it wasn’t much fun. No one was kinder or more helpful than Brother Jones. Sometimes he held me up while I learned to walk again, and I was amazed at the strength in his small hands. I began to understand that power doesn’t come just from muscles, that some heavy weights can be lifted only by kindness, gentleness, and love. Do you understand, son?”
Josh looked at his feet. “A little.”
Dad put the bracelet back into his wallet, and Josh followed him upstairs to the living room. Taking a picture of the Savior from the wall, Dad said, “On my last day of school, I hobbled into Brother Jones’s room and told him that I hoped to be as strong someday as he was. He smiled and handed me a graduation gift. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but here’s a better example to follow.’ I unwrapped this picture. Since then I’ve studied the life of the Savior and done my best to follow his example.”

In this world in which we live, there is a tendency for us to describe needed change, required help, and desired relief with the familiar phrase, “They ought to do something about this.” We fail to define the word they. I love the message, “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” Tears came to my eyes when I read of a young boy who noticed a vagrant asleep on a sidewalk and who then went to his own bedroom, retrieved his pillow, and placed it beneath the head of that one whom he knew not. Perhaps there came from the past these welcome words: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40).

I would like to congratulate you on the fine quality of the New Era. Ever since I was made a deacons quorum president, the gospel has been a large part of my life. I recently read some of our old New Eras and was impressed, inspired, and motivated by many of the articles. Some of these were “The Heart of the Two-Mile Game” (September 1975), “Q and A” (May 1972), The June 1973 Missionary Issue, “Just for Today” (January 1975), and “Swifter, Higher, Stronger” in the September 1981 issue. I was just made a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, and my brother was made the teachers quorum president. My faith and testimony of the gospel are growing because of the New Era. I am interested in any physical fitness articles you print because I am an avid sports enthusiast. Thank you for the inspiration the New Era gives all of us.
Sean BrothersonOrem, Utah

When I decided that I wanted to go into dentistry, that’s all I could think of. I wanted to be a dentist so badly I could almost taste it. I don’t know what it is to taste dentistry, but it just permeated all my thoughts. And I believe I had a sensation reassuring me that it was the right decision for me. Once you’ve made your decision, be ready to stand by it. And be ready to not move your position, not to start this one day and that another day.

From Africa, where the first all-black Relief Society was founded in 1978, comes this word:
“I have learned to look at life in a very different way. I, as a young mother, have learned how to bring up my children in a Christlike way. I have learned to make my home a pleasant place and also a place where the gospel is believed and lived.”

Elder Cullimore recently completed his personal history, and in doing so, he found that he lacked certain information about his youth. To help others avoid a like problem, he says, “In my personal history I suggest to my children and other members of my family that they keep a record of each of their children until those children are old enough to do it for themselves.
“I would encourage children everywhere who are old enough to write, to work on their personal histories now. Some information about their infancies can be supplied by their mothers or fathers or some other knowledgeable and helpful relatives.”

To help provide better shelter in refugee camps throughout the world, LDS Charities is participating in a United Nations High Commission for Refugees project. An international furniture retailer has designed a structure that has advantages compared to tents. The structure includes doors and windows for increased security and a more solid roof covering to protect occupants from the elements. Assembly is under way for 333 housing units that LDS Charities has provided to a refugee camp in Iraqi Kurdistan.

Time for scripture study requires a schedule that will be honored. Otherwise, blessings that matter most will be at the mercy of things that matter least. Time for family scripture study may be difficult to establish. Years ago when our children were at home, they attended different grades in several schools. Their daddy had to be at the hospital no later than 7:00 in the morning. In family council we determined that our best time for scripture study was 6:00 a.m. At that hour our little ones were very sleepy but supportive. Occasionally we had to awaken one when a turn came to read. I would be less than honest with you if I conveyed the impression that our family scripture time was a howling success. Occasionally it was more howling than successful. But we did not give up.
Now, a generation later, our children are all married with families of their own. Sister Nelson and I have watched them enjoy family scripture study in their own homes. Their efforts are much more successful than were ours. We shudder to think what might have happened if we had quit trying.