Gospel Story Finder

The two youngest sons of Walter and Gaylene Woodring of Hacienda Heights, California, have received their Eagle Scout awards. All five Woodring sons have now achieved that rank. To honor their father, who recently passed away, the Woodring sons donated and erected a flag pole in front of the stake center, landscaped the surrounding area, donated the large flag on the pole, and attached a bronze plaque that said, “Walter H. Woodring, father of five sons—five Eagle Scouts.”

Life was good for 15-year-old Sarah Jane Marler—about as good as it could get in Port Gibson, Mississippi, in 1850. As the oldest daughter of a wealthy land owner, Sarah Jane enjoyed many of the comforts of the Old South: a beautiful and spacious home, many servants, and a bustling social life.
Along with her parents and seven brothers and sisters, she joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1845. Now she had the blessing of the restored gospel, too.
Yes, life was good for Sarah Jane, almost perfect. Then her parents, Allen and Harriet Heath Marler, made a decision to leave, to sell their land and most of their possessions, and join with other pioneer Saints in the Salt Lake Valley. In early March of 1850, along with Sarah Jane’s uncle Samuel Heath, his wife and two little boys, her family left tender ties and a warm climate to make the long, arduous journey to a new life in Utah territory.
How did Sarah Jane feel? Did she pout? Did she cry? She probably felt like any modern-day teenager does when facing a forced move. Sad to leave her friends, maybe a teensy angry with Mom and Dad, and most certainly knots-in-the-stomach scared! After all, she would never see her Mississippi home again.
During the first part of their journey the two families traveled by riverboat up the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers headed for St. Joseph, Missouri. However, before they reached their destination, the dread disease cholera broke out in the family. One of the children was seriously ill. The riverboat captain, fearing his boat would be quarantined if a sick person was found aboard, insisted that they leave the boat at once. It was night, and the small band went by foot in cold and drenching rain to find refuge in St. Joseph. The child died in his mother’s arms. And within hours all members of the family, except Sarah Jane, were violently ill.
Can you imagine Sarah Jane’s desperation? Her loneliness and isolation must have been overwhelming as she ran through the streets of St. Joseph begging for help. The people of that community were sympathetic but so fearful of catching the disease themselves they dared not come near her family. She must have thought, I’m the only one! I’m the only one who can help! The fear in her heart must have been unbearable. For days, she was doctor and nurse to her family.
Sarah Jane’s father, three of her sisters, and her two boy cousins died. She served as midwife for her mother, who bore a premature baby girl who died, too. She then had to be mortician for her family. After begging again, help came, and she was finally able to bury her loved ones.
In a few weeks those remaining were well again. After much prayer, Sarah Jane’s mother and uncle decided to continue west. A row of graves, large and small, left behind a story of tragedy and sacrifice. But they moved on, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley on October 2, 1850.
Sarah Jane Marler was my great-great aunt. Her courage and faith, borne of a powerful testimony of the gospel for one so young, has been an inspiration in our family for generations.
I often wonder, could I have done what she did?

I believe as baptized members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints you know what matters most. I had a memorable experience as a mother of young children that helped me remember where I wanted to go and what was most important to me.

I was at one of those stages in life when I was feeling discouraged and wondering if changing diapers, fixing meals, vacuuming up the Cheerio and graham cracker crumbs was really what life was all about.

One late afternoon I was vacuuming the family room before my sweetheart came home from work. I liked him to think I had everything under control. That day he arrived home early. He walked into the family room and put his arms around me; I quickly turned off the vacuum. He kissed me and told me that he loved me. It was wonderful to feel his love. He whispered in my ear, "I think I know what you're going to be in the hereafter." I needed a spiritual insight. He continued, "You are going to be the chief vacuumer." I can laugh about it now but it wasn't funny then. I may have cried; I don't remember.

That evening I called a babysitter; and the next morning, with stacks of paper, a pencil and in the spirit of fasting, I went to a small cabin my parents owned. I prayed and I wrote. I made a list of all the things I needed to do and wanted to do. I wrote them as they came to me in no special order, page after page. I went for a walk and then wrote more--mend the clothes my children are growing out of, read the scriptures, clean out the moldy vegetables in the bottom of the refrigerator, go to the temple more frequently, clean the drawers in the bathroom where the toothpaste was stuck in the comb, live with Heavenly Father with Ed and our children in a forever family, be more patient when putting the children to bed, and on and on. When I couldn't think of another thing I had to do or wanted to do, I went for another walk. When I got back I read through my list and put the number one by what mattered most--to live with Heavenly Father with Ed and our children as a forever family. Then I wrote number two and three and four and on down the list. I didn't ever put a number on the bathroom drawer with tooth paste in it.

I knew what I wanted to have happen in my life. I knew before I had this experience what mattered most to me. I had that eternal vision, but it was buried under everything else I needed to do. I needed to clearly identify it again, to have it in my heart and mind, to see that post at the end of the field.

I was thinking how wonderful it would be to witness such a powerful response to prayer. Then I realized I already had.

I was working with my father on the family ranch in Robertson, Wyoming, USA. It was my mother’s birthday, and her parents had invited the family to dinner at their place on Hillard Flat, east of Evanston. In order not to disappoint my mother by arriving late, my father decided to take a shortcut through the hills. Unfortunately, April was way too early in the year to attempt that particular shortcut. As we drove into the hills, it became obvious that we were the first to attempt to cross there that spring. There was still a lot of snow.

The first part of the journey went well, but then we started to find larger and larger drifts, and it became harder and harder to get around them. At one point my father, in his pride-and-joy Suburban, decided go around a large drift by climbing up the side of a hill. The truck was unable to negotiate the slippery terrain. We tipped on an angle, with my father’s side of the Suburban completely embedded in the drift. We were completely helpless and unable to continue.

I was only 10 years old at the time, and I found the adventure quite exciting. We finally had to climb out the window to get out. I did not understand the serious nature of our situation. This was long before the age of cell phones. No one knew that we had taken the shortcut. We were around 12 miles from any homes or the highway. The temperature was plummeting, and unbeknownst to me, my father was worried that we would freeze to death.

I still remember kneeling in prayer. My father asked only two things. First, which way we should walk. Second, could my mother please know something was wrong and send help. I don’t know if my father actually said, “Please, don’t let us freeze,” but I’m sure that was on his mind.

The two requests he voiced in prayer were answered almost immediately. My father felt like we should return the way we had come. At the same time (we later learned), my mother was doing the dishes when she felt distinctly that something was wrong. She counseled with my grandfather, Joseph Barker, and they also prayed. After a short time, my grandfather said, “I know where they are. They’re at Horseshoe Bend.”

Horseshoe Bend is exactly where the Suburban was embedded in the snow.

Grandpa Barker organized two rescue parties. One, led by my uncle Brent Barker, would try to go in where we would have come out. They made the attempt but ran into drifts that were impossible to pass. Grandpa and two other uncles, my father’s brothers Max and Richard Brough, came the long way around and entered at the same place where we had started. They soon found one lonely set of tracks entering and nothing returning.

In the meantime, my father kept talking to me as we were walking. He kept asking if I was tired and if I felt like I was falling asleep. I remember thinking those were strange questions. Of course I was cold—very cold and very tired. But where would I sleep? In the snow? (I have since learned that being tired and sleepy may be signs that you’re freezing to death. My dad was worried.)

After hours of walking, we finally saw the headlights of our rescuers’ trucks. When they reached us, my mother leapt out and ran to me. She swept me up and carried me to the warm vehicle. I also remember her shaking her finger at dad—we all know how mama bear reacts when baby bear is in trouble! Let’s just say that my father’s reception was not as warm as mine.

The story is told of a traveler who asked a farmer, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it, because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest.”
“Nope. I didn’t dare plant any, because I was afraid of insects.”
Somewhat frustrated, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Elodie follows the Savior by being “anxiously engaged in a good cause” (Doctrine and Covenants 58:27). “My friends and I organize events to raise funds for less-privileged people or countries in distress,” Elodie says. “The money goes to buy clothing, books, toys, toiletries, and food. We also raise awareness for people who may not know about these things to see if they would like to help. We try to take a stand and help other people.”
In fall 2022, Elodie and her friends supported a charity organization in France that helps women with difficulties finding jobs or who need help supporting their families. They held a fashion show to raise money. They donated the funds to the organization in hopes it will support women in need and make a difference in their lives.
“It makes me feel happy that I am able to change something that was going wrong for somebody else,” Elodie says. “It’s also fun to get together with people to try to figure out how to get others involved and help them see that they can participate and also make a difference.”

Volleyball season came. We knew we were the best team in the stake. For two years we had been knocking on the door, and this was our year. We had the veteran “senior” boys. We had the height; we had the talent. And we even had a mascot—Billie. We even let Billie play. Just hitting the ball was a major achievement, but everyone clapped and encouraged him, so Billie really felt that he was making a contribution.
Being at each game was more important than ever to him. During the regular season, Billie might have cost the team a few points, or even one game in a series, but everyone recognized the sparkle in his eye when he played and we all felt good because of our sacrifice.
Finally the stake championship came. It was the same rivalry that had been there for the last two years. This time we would win. We had beaten them during the regular season, and we would beat them in the championship. Perhaps as an extra precaution someone “forgot” to tell Billie about the game.
Saturday afternoon at game time some of our players were overconfident and had run down to the store for some pop. The first game started without them, but the second string was good enough. Then in came the bishop with Billie. Both teams were well coached. The game was close, but we lost. We couldn’t afford to hold back. We had to have the next game if we were to win two out of three.
Billie had been at the coach’s side the whole first game. “Now? Should I go in now? Do you want me to play now?” His persistence was distracting. The coach spoke firmly but kindly, “Go sit down; I’ll tell you when, Billie.”
At the end of the first game, Billie couldn’t wait any longer. Scores didn’t mean anything. The only thing that was important was playing. The coach looked at Billie; for a long minute he agonized. He had always played all the boys. Would he change the rules now? Was the principle more important than the game?
This was a unique group of boys. Just weeks before, the coach had told us that sometime in his life every coach should get a chance to work with a group like ours. He felt that we could understand principles. There wasn’t any choice; he had to let Billie play.
The other team served—right to Billie. Another serve—to Billie; and another. Again and again the serve was to Billie. The other coach called time-out; he was talking to his server. Another serve—right to Billie. The score was 11 to 0; no service had been returned. Finally a service went into the net, but it was too late. The final score was 15 to 6. It was our year to win, and we lost.
The other team walked off the court with heads lowered. We were fighting back tears. We didn’t understand. We went outside, and the coach tried to talk. “I thought I knew what was right.” Even he was fighting for composure. “I believe it’s important for everyone to play. I’ve always let everyone play. I hope I’m doing what’s right.” The bishop was there with Billie. He looked as if he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. Finally Billie broke in and said, “Well, we won another one!”
Something happened after that. The bishop gave a lesson in priesthood meeting on winning. He said something about an inactive father going to the temple because his handicapped son was loved by our quorum. He said that was winning. Somebody said if Billie could play volleyball he could come to priesthood meeting. All of a sudden Billie was really part of us. We’d invested a volleyball championship in him, and he was important to us.

Recently, following a large youth devotional, I was visiting amidst a happy swirl of wonderful young men and women. A young man came up.

With great earnestness, he asked, “Elder Gong, can I still go to heaven?”

He was ashamed of some things he had done. He wondered if there was any hope for him. Are repentance and forgiveness real? Could the Lord forgive him? Would he be able to forgive himself? At that moment, it seemed as though time had stopped and it was only the two of us talking.

I asked his name, listened carefully, invited him to talk with his bishop, and gave him a big hug. I think my response may have surprised him: “Trust God and repent, and I promise you can still go to heaven.”

He looked into my eyes until he knew that what I was saying was true.

After that personal, private moment concluded, I returned to the excitement and happy noise of the crowd.

I was so grateful that this good brother could realize with joy that repentance and forgiveness through Jesus Christ’s Atonement can be and are real for him. Sometimes we hear the words, but deep in our hearts we need to know they can be and are real for us—for each of us.

Anton watched as the computer screen loaded level six for what seemed like the millionth time. He took a deep breath and started moving through the maze, flying over colorful spikes and through fiery tunnels. He tapped his foot faster as he got closer and closer to the finish line.
“Anton?” It was Mom’s voice. She sounded like she needed something.
“Not now!” he thought. He jumped over another spike and sped deep through another tunnel. “Yes?” he said, not moving his eyes from the screen.
“Would you please get Felix into his pajamas and read him a story? I’ve got to finish cleaning up the kitchen.”
“Um … ,” He was so close! He curved through one last spiky corridor, over another flame, past a chomping monster, and … YES! across the finish line!
The computer loaded level seven. It looked harder, but Anton couldn’t wait to try it. He had worked so hard to reach this level. Anton hit the pause button and looked up at Mom, who was holding his little brother, Felix. “Can I have just a few more minutes? I just got to level seven!”
“I really need your help,” Mom said. “You can do one more level after you take care of Felix.”
Felix smiled. “Pwease?” he said in his tiny two-year-old voice.
Anton looked at the computer screen and sighed. “All right.” He’d just have to hurry so he could get back to his game.
He lifted Felix and carried him up the stairs to their room.
“Who’s my favorite baby brother?” he said, poking Felix’s squishy baby tummy. He blew on Felix’s stomach and smiled as Felix squealed with laughter.
Anton dressed Felix in his favorite dinosaur pajamas. Then he lifted Felix into bed and headed for the door. Mom had told him to read Felix a story too, but he had done the important part. Maybe now he could get in two more levels before bedtime.
Just then Anton felt a tug on his shirt. He looked down and saw that Felix had climbed out of bed.
“Bear?” Felix asked. He ran to his basket of books and brought back a book with a polar bear on the front.
“Aw, Felix, I’ve got things to do!” Anton said. Felix held the book above his head, looking up at Anton with his big brown eyes.
Anton couldn’t help but grin. “You won’t take no for an answer, will you? Well, OK.”
Anton sat down on Felix’s bed, and Felix climbed up into his lap. Anton opened to the first page and read while Felix leaned against him. Felix pointed to each animal on the page and practiced saying its name. “Zee-ba … famingo … wah-wus.”
When it was over, Anton closed the book and tucked Felix’s blanket around him. “Good night, Felix,” he said, kissing Felix on the head and standing to go.
But as he walked toward the door, he heard that little voice again. “Snuggle?”
Anton smiled. “OK. Scoot over. I’ll stay for a bit.”
Anton lay down on the pillow. At least for now, he didn’t really feel like doing anything else. He smiled when Felix gave a big yawn and closed his eyes. He felt the happiest he’d been all day. His game could wait.

From Africa comes another example of being patient in the gospel.

Robert Israel Muhile was one of the first from Tanzania to accept the gospel. He was converted while working and studying in Cairo, Egypt. . . . His decision to join the Church brought him “great joy and peace.”

A year later Robert, by then an elder, returned to his home in Tanzania with the strong desire to convert his family. . . . He was unsuccessful. His family had no interest in his newfound religion. He was isolated from other Church members, for his home . . . was six hundred miles, three days by bus, from the nearest branch of the Church.

Robert went to the mission president and received permission to administer the sacrament to himself each week. The next Sunday he invited his family to attend his worship service, but no one came. So he held his meeting alone. This is his poignant description of his Sunday meetings:

I prepared water and bread. I also had more water to clean my hands and a small towel. I sang a song to myself out loud. I had my hymn book. After that I offered an opening prayer. Because I was alone, I didn’t have any business to do, so I sang the sacrament hymn and prepared the sacrament. Then I knelt and blessed it and took it. After the sacrament I covered it, as we respect it always. I offered myself a talk—my testimony. Then I sang as we did in Sunday School and then read from Gospel Principles. I finished with a prayer. I then attended priesthood meeting. After singing a hymn, I said a prayer and then read a lesson from the priesthood manual. After that, I finished by singing and then offered the closing prayer. Each Sunday I had all three meetings. When I partook of the emblems it helped me to be more worthy. [Heidi S. Swinton, “I Sang to Myself,” Pioneer Spirit: Modern-Day Stories of Courage and Conviction (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1996), pp. 127–28]

You come home from school and ask your mom what’s for dinner. She tells you it’s soup and bread, and she asks you to hang up your jacket. You’re about to go out with some friends when she reminds you that you need to practice the bodhran for a while.
Have you stepped into a parallel universe? Is this some kind of weird dream? What in the world is a bodhran?
It’s all part of daily life for the Bigney brothers of Woodland Hills, Utah, because their family’s Celtic music group is a priority, and the boys have to practice.
Alex, Sam, and Simeon Bigney, ages 18, 16, and 14, respectively, make up the group Kirkmount, and though their music isn’t exactly the stuff you hear on the radio, it definitely appeals to a lot of people.
“Our music is interesting because it spans a generation gap,” says Alex. “Old people like to listen to it, but kids our age come out and think it’s really cool, too.”
Part of what makes it “cool” is that the three boys do all the music themselves. Alex plays the harp and the bones (and yes, the “bones” are exactly what they sound like they are); Sam plays the fiddle; and Simeon plays the cello and the aforementioned bodhran (pronounced “bow-run”), which is a sort of Gaelic drum.
Whatever happened to the piano, or the guitar, or even the clarinet?
“We’re not aware of any other group anywhere that has this particular arrangement of instruments,” Alex says. “But they’re all very traditional Celtic instruments.”
“Celtic,” by the way, is pronounced with a “K” sound at the beginning, and it refers primarily to the region of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Bagpipes are a Celtic instrument you may have heard before, and Enya is a popular Celtic musician.
Aside from the choice of instruments, Kirkmount differs even from other Celtic groups because of their music—they write most of it themselves.
“It’s not extremely common for groups to write their own music,” says Sam, who does most of the writing for Kirkmount. “Some people will write a tune or two, but not a lot.”
Sam’s first tune was called “Late Summer Aire.” He first got a taste of fame when he and his brothers attended a fiddle camp—yes, a fiddle camp—in northern California, and the whole camp wound up playing his song. After that, the boys were hooked.
What brought them to a fiddle camp in the first place? That’s where the family ties come in. The boys’ grandfather used to invite them frequently to go to a Scottish fiddling camp with him, but they always declined.
“But one year, our grandparents were going to Ukraine on a mission. We weren’t going to see them for a while, so we decided we’d better go to the camp,” says Alex. “We went and really enjoyed the music, and that’s how we got started.”
The boys’ parents, Alex and Marilyn, began hiring professional musicians to come do workshops at the Bigney home. About 20 or so have been through, and many of them have done shows with the Bigneys afterwards, the money going to help pay for expenses. (The income from Kirkmount’s two CDs helps cover costs, too.)
It’s really a family affair. Sister Bigney says her husband “knows how to critique. He critiques the boys, and he listens, and he knows enough about Celtic music to help them. He has an exceptional ear.”
What about Mom? She supports. “I took them to their lessons for quite a few years,” she says. “I’m a great expert—on paper. I’m a great appreciator of music.”
Eventually, even the boys’ younger sisters, Miriam and Falcon, will get in on the act, as they are learning to play the viola and guitar.
“It would be really great to have a whole family thing,” Sam says. “It’s not something many people do as a family.”
How strong are the family ties with the Bigneys? Well, they practice about two hours a day together on the average, but sometimes it’s as much as eight hours. And they don’t really get tired of each other.
“We have our small quarrels,” Sam says, “but I think even the music helps us to solve those and come to an understanding of each other. I think music can touch people in ways that words can’t.”
The name Kirkmount is the name of the small village in Nova Scotia where their grandfather grew up. (Their great-great-grandfather, Simeon Bigney, was one of the first members of the Church there.) The covers of their CDs are collages of old family photos. Their ancestors were Celtic and played many of the same tunes that the Bigneys play now.
“We’re carrying on a tradition,” Alex says.
And Sister Bigney adds, “It’s important for people to find out what their traditions are, and music is one of those important things that helps you understand how your ancestors felt, what they did for entertainment, all the emotions they had. Music is a language.”
Alex says, “This music helps us get closer to our grandparents. They come to many of the shows, whenever they can, and they’ve supported us all through our musical experience.”
This family is tied together so much that Sam and his grandfather are even home teaching companions.
Obviously, the group has a strong interest in genealogy and family bonds. Sam explains that one of the highlights of his musical career so far has been playing his fiddle at the graves of some of his ancestors in Nova Scotia.
Furthermore, the group’s travels have taken them to Boston, where their father lived as a youth. Simeon (whose name is pronounced like “Simon”) says seeing where his dad went to church “was a good experience,” as was spending so much quality time with his brothers.
The Bigneys’ music doesn’t have any lyrics, so it’s difficult to express any kind of particular message in a song. But their music is expressive in its own way, creating moods and feelings pretty well. The music makes you feel like you’ve been taken back in time, and taken to Ireland. And since the gospel should be part of everything we do, the Bigneys manage to tie it all together.
“We don’t say onstage ‘Yes, we’re LDS,’ but I think people know,” Alex says. “Since we come from Utah, there have been people who come up and say, ‘Are you Mormon?’”
Sam adds, “We try to set a good example for people. The music helps us realize that God gives us talents, and we hope we can use them to our best abilities and share them with other people.” The Bigneys feel they must rely on the Lord when they perform.
“As we’re playing the music, we really become aware of whether the Spirit is with us or not,” Alex says. “If we don’t have the right spirit with us, we know we don’t play as well.” As a result, the group always has a prayer before they perform.
“You have to realize where the talents are coming from,” Alex says.
But it’s not all play and no work for Kirkmount. The boys practice every day, and while they enjoy all the regular teenage boy stuff—basketball, hiking, reading, and what-not—sometimes the music has to take them away from those things. They’ve sometimes missed ward basketball games and Boy Scout campouts because they had performances.
“But our Young Men and Young Women groups are pretty supportive,” says Sam. “They’ve come to our shows before.”
And so in the end, it’s all worth it. The stronger love for their immediate family, the more powerful connection to their grandfather and distant ancestors, the satisfaction they get from using the talents God has given them to uplift others—all that makes everything worthwhile. “The music helps me to know who I am,” says Sam, “and to express myself in a way that words can’t. We want to help, not only ourselves, but other people gain a testimony as well. Music can touch hearts.”

In 1885, a young woman named Margaret Gordon was living with her family in a tiny village in Ontario, Canada. Her father had moved his family to Canada from England and managed to find a job teaching school in that remote place. Margaret, then 19 years old, corresponded with some LDS cousins in Utah. They sent her a copy of the Book of Mormon. As she read it, she felt a powerful spiritual witness that what she was reading was true. She was sufficiently moved that she began sharing her witness with the other members of her family. Eventually her father, the last hold-out, agreed to move the family to Utah, where they joined the Church. Margaret never faltered in her testimony and spent a lifetime of remarkable service on the frontiers of the western U.S. and Canada, building the Kingdom of God.21
Her testimony of the Gospel, and especially of the Book of Mormon, was irrepressible. As an old woman in her 90s, she hauled two, young great grandsons into her little bedroom where she read the Book of Mormon with them aloud, and explained it, and testified of it, verse by verse, over the course of many weeks. It may have seemed a fool’s errand at times, because the little boys squirmed and laughed at the strange names in the book. But the light of her testimony was strong. It shone brightly on the seedling testimonies of the two boys. My brother and I were changed forever by that experience. To each of us, a testimony of the Book of Mormon is an anchor to our faith.

Last summer my family and I visited Helen, Georgia. We were having a wonderful time sightseeing, tubing down the river, and shopping. In my favorite shop, my sister and I tried on rings and admired all the pretty jewelry.
Late in the afternoon, a storm started gathering and we decided to head on home. About ten miles outside of Helen, I looked down at my hand and realized that I was still wearing a ring from my favorite shop. I was shocked, and my heart started to beat really fast. I hadn’t meant to take the ring! To make matters worse, we were right in the middle of a very bad storm. “Mom,” I yelled from the back of the van, “we need to go back.”
“What?” my mom asked.
“I accidentally stole a ring, and I need to return it or go back and pay for it.”
Mom didn’t know what to do because she didn’t want to drive all the way back in the storm. She asked if I could remember which shop the ring had come from. I told her, and she was very relieved. When we had been in that shop, she had picked up one of their business cards. She told me it had the shop’s address on it and that I could mail the money with a note to the owners when we got home.
Once home, I immediately got out my stationery and wrote a letter of apology, put the money for the ring into the envelope, and mailed it the next day. I felt much better inside. A few days later, I got a letter from the shop owners saying how glad they were that I had been honest. I was glad too!

Around my 14th birthday, I learned about some of these blessings. I noticed different behavior on the part of my parents. Considering what I observed, I asked, “Are we going on a mission?” The shock on my mother’s face confirmed my suspicion. Later, in a family council, my siblings and I learned that our parents had been called to preside over a mission.
We lived on a beautiful ranch in Wyoming. From my perspective, life was perfect. I could come home from school, complete my chores, and be off hunting, fishing, or exploring with my dog.
Shortly after learning of the calling, I realized that I would have to give up my dog, Blue. I confronted my father, asking what I should do with Blue. I wanted to emphasize the unfairness of what God was requiring. I will never forget this response. He said, “I’m not sure. He probably cannot go with us, so you had better ask Heavenly Father.” That was not the response I had anticipated.
I began reading the Book of Mormon. I earnestly prayed to know if I had to give my dog away. My answer did not come in a moment; rather, a specific thought kept penetrating my mind: “Don’t be a burden to your parents. Don’t be a burden. I have called your parents.”
I knew what Heavenly Father required. That knowledge did not reduce the pain of giving my dog away. However, through that small sacrifice, my heart softened and I found peace in seeking Heavenly Father’s will.
I thank my Heavenly Father for the blessings and happiness I found through the scriptures, prayer, the Holy Ghost, and a worthy earthly father who embraced his role as the principal gospel teacher of his children. They were leading me, guiding me, and even walking beside me to help me find the way—especially when I had to do something difficult.

“Hey, Coach,” he called as I was working with the senior shot putters and discus throwers. I ignored him.
“Hey, Coach Crowe,” he persisted, “that other coach over there said I should come over here and throw. He said you should watch me.”
I turned around and looked at the kid. His black hair hung unevenly over his forehead, his bony shoulders angled out of his baggy tank top, and his long skinny arms hung low, almost to his knees. When the wind blew, his practice uniform flapped around his bony frame like clothes on a scarecrow. He was obviously a freshman.
In his right hand he held a discus, the black rubber kind we issued to beginning throwers. “You wanna watch me throw?” he asked.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Darwin Hughes.”
“Where’d you get that discus, Hughes? You’re too small to be a weight man.”
“Well, Coach,” he answered, “I like throwing, and I’m pretty good. If you’ll watch me, I’ll …”
“Not now, Hughes. I’m working with the seniors. Tell you what, go over to that discus ring over there,” I pointed to the opposite end of the field, “and you throw. I’ll come down in a little while and see how you’re doing, okay?”
“Sure, Coach.” He turned and loped off to the other end of the practice field.
I went back to work with my seniors. Boy, these freshmen, I thought. Why are they so goofy? That kid has as much chance of becoming a discus thrower as I do of becoming president of the United States.
Practice went pretty much as usual that day, and I was too busy with my seniors to find the time to go watch Hughes. The next two days he hung around the throwing areas, and each time I banished him to the opposite end of the field to throw by himself so he couldn’t bother me as I worked with the upperclassmen.
Finally, on the fourth day, some of the throwers came to see me. “Hey, Coach,” said one, “have you seen that freshman throw yet?”
“You mean that scrawny little kid Hughes? I can’t believe he’s still wasting his time. Look, if you guys want to throw down there, just tell him to go work with the distance runners. He’d have a better chance of making the team with them.”
“But, Coach,” interrupted one of them, “maybe you ought to see him throw. He’s throwing over 130 feet.”
That got my attention; 130 feet would make him the number two thrower on my varsity squad. These guys must be pulling my leg, I thought. But I’d better go down and watch, just to make sure.
By the time I got down there, a little crowd had gathered around the discus ring. In the center stood Hughes, just beginning another throw. He held his arms out, bent his knees, spun twice through the ring, and launched a throw that was easily 130 feet.
After he finished his throw, he looked over at me and grinned sheepishly, as if I had caught him doing something wrong. “Come here, Hughes,” I said. He trotted over. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“I dunno, Coach. I threw a little bit in eighth grade, but mainly I just like to throw.”
“Tell you what, Hughes,” I said as I put my arm around his shoulder, “from now on you can throw down at the other end with the upperclassmen so I can watch you a little more.”
Never let it be said that I didn’t recognize talent when it hit me in the face.
By his sophomore year, Darwin had developed into a fine discus thrower. He won nearly every dual meet and placed in every prestigious invitational meet he attended. At five-foot-nine, 145 pounds, Darwin looked out of place among the Goliaths of the shot put and discus rings, and many times when he first began competing on the varsity, throwers from other schools would laugh at skinny Darwin Hughes. Their laughter, however, changed to amazement as soon as he took his first warm-up throw.
By the end of his sophomore year, no one laughed at him anymore because little Darwin finished third in the state championships by throwing 165 feet, two inches.
In his junior and senior seasons, the littlest weight man was the best thrower in Arizona. Spectators, coaches, and other throwers marveled at how such a small thrower (by his senior year Darwin was five-foot-ten, 165 pounds) could throw a discus more than 185 feet and a 12-pound shot more than 57 feet. And I have to admit, even as his coach, I was often amazed at all Darwin accomplished. I’m convinced that, considering his size, Darwin was the best high school weight man in the United States.
People would often ask me, “How does he do it? What’s Hughes’s secret?” I wish I could have answered that Darwin owed all his success to me, but that wasn’t true. First of all, Darwin had some inherent ability, some natural skill for what he was trying to do. Based on that ability, he then applied some basic principles of success.
Second, he had a desire to excel, to be the best discus thrower he could possibly be. “Coach,” he told me one day at practice, “I don’t know how far I can throw, but I’m going to do everything I can to be one of the best weight men Arizona has ever had.”
At the time he was only a sophomore, and considering his size, I was afraid he was setting his goals too high. “Look, Darwin, you’re doing super right now. You should feel great about what you’ve already accomplished. This is a big man’s sport, so with your size, you can’t expect to get much better.”
“But, Coach, I know I can do better. I just know it.” He was right. The next year, Darwin improved his best throw by 20 feet.
But it wasn’t only his drive to excel that helped Darwin succeed. He also believed in himself. Ignored by his own coach as a freshman, scoffed at by competitors as a sophomore, Darwin remained convinced that he could and would be successful. Near the end of his senior season I asked him why he didn’t give up during those first years. He shrugged and explained, “When no one else believes in you, you’ve got to believe in yourself.”
Confidence alone, however, wasn’t enough to make a mountain of a thrower out of a molehill of a boy. Darwin was a dedicated, hard worker. Every day he’d be out to practice a half hour early, throwing by himself. And on most spring afternoons and evenings, he and I would be the only ones left on the practice field, working on his technique until it was too dark to see anymore. Darwin would even spend hours on Saturdays throwing and throwing and throwing.
I’ve never coached an athlete who worked harder than Darwin, and I’ve never coached an athlete who was as successful as he was either. Someone said once, “If you want to be a superstar, you’ve got to start early and stay late.” That was certainly true for Darwin.
But all his hard work wasn’t without direction. Darwin listened intently to every coaching tip he ever received and worked diligently to turn that advice into improvement. When I asked Darwin to do something differently or advised him to spend more time in the weight room, he’d say, “Okay, Coach,” and he’d do it.
Darwin also studied his event. He poured through every track-and-field textbook in our school’s library and was able to quote extensively from the Track and Field News about recent events and technique development. He read coaching journals, sports pages, and anything else that might have a bit of information he could use to become a better weight man. By the time he graduated, Darwin knew more about his event than I did.
And finally, Darwin followed great examples. As a freshman and sophomore, he would carefully watch and study the throwing methods of the leading weight men in the state. As he increased his knowledge, he began to attend college meets to study the methods of collegiate weight men. He even talked me into ordering films of the world’s greatest discus throwers, and he spent hours watching them.
His talents and his efforts made Darwin Hughes the best weight man ever at our high school and ranked him as the fifth best discus thrower in the history of Arizona. All at five-foot-ten, 165 pounds.

I met Megan when my family moved into our new house. She lived down the street, and we were both in Sister Crawford’s Primary class. We became friends and played together a lot. I watched Megan closely, trying to remember how she told a joke or how she fixed her hair or how she talked to other kids so easily. I thought Megan was perfect. I was shy. I wanted to be like Megan.
One day I called Megan to see if she wanted to play. She didn’t say anything at first.
“Caitlin is already over here,” she finally said.
Caitlin was in our Primary class too. I waited for Megan to invite me over, but she didn’t. Her end of the line was quiet.
“Oh. OK,” I stammered. Megan hung up without saying anything else.
That Sunday in Primary, Sister Crawford asked us, “What does it mean to be a good friend?”
I smiled at Megan, but she didn’t see me. She turned the other way and whispered to Caitlin. Suddenly Caitlin laughed out loud.
“Please quiet down, girls,” Sister Crawford said. They stopped whispering, but their shoulders trembled with giggles. Sister Crawford turned to me. “Angie, what do you think makes a good friend?”
“Well, someone who is nice and likes to play with you and—”
Megan and Caitlin giggled louder. My face got hot, and I looked at the floor. Were they laughing at me?
Sister Crawford frowned at them, then smiled at me. “That’s right, Angie,” she said. She looked around at the class. “How can you be a good friend?”
Adam raised his hand. “We can help people,” he said.
Sister Crawford nodded. “A good friend wants to help and serve others. Jesus Christ taught that when He lived on the earth. He also taught us that we should be kind to everyone.”
I looked at Megan and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I felt an empty spot in my chest. Didn’t Megan like me anymore?
At the end of the lesson, Sister Crawford held up a small basket. “I have something for you,” she said. She reached into the basket and showed us colorful strings that had been tied in small circles. “These are friendship bracelets. You wear it on your wrist, and whenever you look at it you can remember to be a good friend.”
Maybe friendship bracelets would help! Maybe Megan and I could get matching bracelets. As the basket went around the class, I leaned toward Megan. “What color are you going to get?” I asked her.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe a yellow one.”
“Me too,” I said.
Caitlin chose a blue bracelet. Then she passed the basket to Megan. Megan fingered a few bracelets, then pulled out a blue one too. I stared at her. Blue? She quickly handed me the basket. I stared into it, not knowing what to do. There were only yellow bracelets left. I slowly pulled one out.
Megan and Caitlin giggled and held out their arms side by side, admiring their matching blue bracelets. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying. I was not going to cry in front of them.* * * *
I threw myself into Mom’s arms as soon as we got home from church. “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I started to cry. Through my tears I told her what had happened. She sat next to me on my bed and held me close. “I’m sorry, Angie,” she said.
“Doesn’t Megan want to be my friend anymore?” I asked.
Mom stroked my hair. “Sometimes we don’t know why people do certain things,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Sister Crawford said today that we should try to be kind to everyone, like Jesus was. But I don’t want to be kind to Megan.”
“I understand,” Mom said. “But I also agree with Sister Crawford. It might be hard, but we should try to be kind even if someone hurts our feelings. Jesus taught us to forgive others.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. I thought of the way Megan and Caitlin had laughed, and I felt that empty feeling again.
Mom pointed to a figurine of a girl kneeling in prayer that I kept on my nightstand. “Whenever someone hurts my feelings, I ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive that person. I ask Him to soften my heart and the other person’s heart.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head. “I always feel better when I’ve talked to Heavenly Father,” she said.
When I said my prayers that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the friendship I had with Megan. Then I asked Him to help me forgive her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard. “Please help Megan and me be friends again,” I said.
I prayed for those things for the next few days. On Saturday I was swinging on our swing set when Megan came up our walk. I stopped swinging. We looked at each other but didn’t say anything. Finally Megan reached out and put something in my hand.
“This is for you,” she said. I opened my hand and saw a blue friendship bracelet.
“Do you want to play?” Megan asked. “Caitlin is coming over to my house. We’re going to pretend we’re princesses, and Noodle is going to be the queen.”
Noodle was Megan’s gray-striped cat. I giggled, picturing Noodle wearing a crown. I felt the empty spot inside shrinking. “Yes, I’d like to come over,” I said. “Thanks.”
I smiled at her, and this time Megan smiled back.

I was out of school for about a year and worked for a small firm in Eagle, Idaho. We were doing an addition and remodel to a ward meetinghouse in New Plymouth, Idaho, a small town near the border of Oregon. The building was originally built in the late 50s, and at that time, they built the churches with donated labor. Whenever we would do additions and remodels to those meetinghouses, there seemed to always be problems. On this particular project, we were going to add classrooms and then do a remodel to the rest of the building, including the chapel. The rostrum area, the platform where the bishopric and the choir sits, was going to be completely redesigned. We got the construction documents completed and the general contractor began the project.

About a month into the project, the contractor gave us a call and indicated there was a problem when they removed the rostrum platform. They found that there was dry rot in the structure below and wanted to know what they should do about it. I told him, I would leave right away and I would be there in about forty-five minutes or so.

Now dry rot is wood decay caused by certain species of fungus, which will digest parts of the wood, which give wood fiber, strength, and stiffness. If the infected wood is exposed to moisture and there is no cross ventilation then the fungus can spread. An outbreak of dry rot, within a building, is extremely serious and infestation is difficult to eradicate, requiring complete removal and replacement of the infected structure.

I arrived on site, as a new overconfident architect, thinking I was going to solve this situation and wave my hand and give direction that would amaze. When I entered the chapel, no one was around. I looked about the room and could not see any visible problem and to me the floor surface looked fine. As I moved forward and approached the rostrum area, the floor where I stepped gave way and I fell through the floor. Luckily the building had a shallow crawl space so I was not hurt. As I got my wits about myself and was trying to pull myself up, I looked around and was surrounded by the superintendent and a few subcontractors, who were trying to hold back the laughter because of the scene. Let me tell you--I had a piece of humble pie. They helped me up and proceeded to show me the damage to the structure.

I discovered that the areas that were infected by the dry rot were the area underneath the rostrum and about five feet up the back wall. It was amazing to me that the back wall had not collapsed, and I discovered that the only material holding it up was the non-structural face brick. It was a miracle that the wall had held up this long and did not collapse. I grabbed one of the 2x6's, on the back wall, and it crumbled in my hand. We had to remove and replace the infected plywood subfloor, the 2x12 floor structure, and the 2x6 back wall structure. The cost of replacement was substantial.

A small Vietnamese woman struggles to lift a frozen turkey out of the supermarket freezer. Her husband examines it and with an ear-splitting grin turns to the two young American girls standing beside him. “Chicken?” he asks. The group bursts into giggles. The two girls try to explain in simplified English that this large fowl is not a super species of chicken but is a turkey.
The girls are from the Riverside Stake in Salt Lake City, Utah. As a stake service project, they are sponsoring a Vietnamese family. One of their tasks has been to introduce the family to an American supermarket. “Our first trip to the grocery store was definitely memorable,” said Laurie Sperry, Center First Ward. “We did a lot of laughing together.”
The job of sponsoring a refugee family involved many of the young women. They helped in the search for a suitable place for the family to live, in gathering clothes and bedding, in enrolling the children in school, and in giving the small family a tour of the city.
“Even though we couldn’t communicate in words,” said Laurie, “we could feel their gratitude.”
The girls of the Riverside Stake tasted the sweetness of service. And what started as a service project has turned into a caring, helping relationship between friends.

In 1952 the majority of the families in the Rose Park Third Ward were members whose fathers or husbands held only the Aaronic Priesthood, rather than the Melchizedek Priesthood. Brother L. Brent Goates was called to serve as the bishop. He invited a less-active brother in the ward, Ernest Skinner, to assist in activating the 29 adult brethren in the ward who held the office of teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood and to help these men and their families get to the temple. As a less-active member himself, Brother Skinner was reluctant at first but finally indicated he would do what he could. He began personally visiting with the less-active adult teachers, trying to help them see their role as priesthood leaders in their homes and as husbands and fathers to their families. He soon enlisted some of the less-active brethren to assist him in his assignment. One by one they became fully active again and took their families to the temple.
One day the ward clerk came out of a grocery checking line to greet the last of the group to go to the temple. Commenting on his position as the last, the man said: “I stood by and watched as all of that group became active in our ward and went to the temple. If only I had been able to imagine how beautiful it was in the temple, and how it would change my life forever, I never would have been the last of 29 to be sealed in the temple.”

Emma jumped over the cracks in the stone sidewalk. It was a bright, sunny day. She and Mama were walking to the grocery store.
“Mama, how far away is the sun?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mama said.
Emma squinted up at the sky. “Do you think a rocket will ever go to the sun? Do you think it’s hotter than lightning? Do you think …”
Mama laughed. “Your questions are getting harder and harder!”
Emma laughed too. She had lots of questions. Mama always did her best to answer them. That was one reason why Emma liked going on walks with Mama.
Emma looked around her neighborhood. Taxis drove down the stone street. People rode by on bikes. Lots of people were out walking too.
Then Emma looked across the street. A little girl was sitting on the steps outside an apartment building. It looked like she was crying.
Emma slowed down. Should she stop to help? Maybe the girl wanted to be left alone. Sometimes Emma wanted to be left alone when she was sad.
Emma stopped walking. Most of the time Emma wanted someone to talk to when she needed help. And maybe she could help!
She grabbed Mama’s hand. “Look, Mama. I think that girl needs some help.”
Mama looked across the street. “I think you’re right.”
Emma held Mama’s hand as they crossed the street. She walked up the steps to where the girl was sitting.
“Hi,” Emma said. “Do you need help?”
The little girl sniffed and looked up at them. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, and her eyes were red and puffy.
“I … I’m locked out of my apartment.” She took a deep breath. Her voice was shaky and quiet. Emma knelt down next to her to hear her better.
“I can’t read,” the girl said. “I don’t know what button to push to get back in.”
Emma looked at the wall outside the apartment building. There were lots of little buttons. Each button had a name on it. Next to the buttons was a speaker.
“What’s your last name?” Emma asked.
“Schneider,” the little girl said.
Mama read through all the buttons until she found one that said “Schneider.” She pushed it.
Buzz!
The button made a loud sound. Then a voice crackled through the speaker.
“This is the Schneiders. How may I help you?”
Mama spoke into the speaker. “Hi! My daughter and I are outside with a little girl who says she got locked out.”
The girl stood up fast and ran over to the speaker. “Mama,” she said, “I couldn’t read the button to get back in, and these people helped me!”
The voice on the speaker sounded surprised. “Leni! I thought you were in your room! Don’t worry. I’m coming down there right now.”
After a few seconds, a lady came running outside. The girl ran up and gave her a hug.
The lady turned to Emma. “Thank you for helping my little Leni!”
Emma smiled. “It was easy to help.”
They waved goodbye and walked back down the stairs. Emma’s whole body felt warm. She thought of one more question for Mama.
“Helping that girl was easy. Why do I feel so happy about it?”
Mama squeezed Emma’s hand. “That’s the Holy Ghost telling you that you made a good choice.”
Emma smiled. She was glad she stopped to help.