Gospel Story Finder

How do three lovely young ladies who are profoundly deaf speak fluently with confidence, joy, and Irish accents?
The answer? With patient faith, hard work, and tender help from parents, sisters, teachers, and their Heavenly Father.
The Ferguson sisters, Deborah, 21, Julie-Ann, 16, and Heather, 13, are from Bangor Branch, Belfast Northern Ireland Stake, and were born with hearing impairments. Two more sisters, Amanda, 20, and Gail, 18, along with parents Peter and Lillian have normal hearing. The girls’ grandparents were also born deaf and mute.
But communication is no problem for this outstanding family. Trust in the Lord and determination are working miracles in their lives.
Proof of this is abundant in Deborah’s many achievements. Her bubbling personality and eagerness to live life to the fullest have bridged some hearing problems. Since graduating from seminary, she has participated in the Cub Scouting programme, serving in assistant leadership positions.
Among other hardearned awards are trophies of all shapes and sizes for numerous sports, including badminton, squash, swimming, and football.
“When we held the dance festival,” said Young Women president Sister Geddis, “Deborah was the best at keeping on the beat, moving perfectly with the music.” Deborah explains, “Although I can’t hear sound, I feel vibrations through the floor, and with care can dance like the rest.”
Whether dancing or studying, no obstacles will prevent Deborah from enjoying every programme the Church has to offer. “I will be serving as a missionary,” she says. “I love to serve and have a great desire to spread the gospel amongst other people with hearing disabilities.”
Her younger sister Amanda feels the same way. Although able to hear perfectly herself, she has witnessed the aspirations of her family and is determined to open doors for others less blessed with opportunity. She is taking a university course in British Sign Language and after three years will be qualified to interpret and teach.
“I’d like to begin by sharing the gospel with my grandparents, aunt, and uncles who are also deaf,” Amanda explains. “I feel they’re missing so much. I’d love to help them learn the truth.”
Learning plays an important part in sister Gail’s life too—especially seminary. “It’s a great programme. I gain such a lot. Seeing things through the eyes of ancient people has helped me appreciate my own family and their present struggles.”
Gail has an outstanding talent for dealing with children. Acting as “ears” for younger sisters for many years, she has developed patience, kindness, and sensitivity to others’ needs.
Those listening ears are greatly missed by Julie-Ann and Heather for many months each year. These two leave home, family, and Irish stew behind and attend school at the renowned Mary Hare United Kingdom Grammar School for the Deaf in Newbury, England. Due to the rigorous academic requirements, for one pupil to be accepted at this outstanding school is an accomplishment (a bit like being chosen for Oxford or Cambridge), but for two from the same family to attend is something of a miracle.
“Letting the children be educated so far away has been a traumatic experience for us all,” Brother Ferguson says. “But through prayer we found comfort and confirmation that our decision was right.”
“We all send letters once or twice a week,” says Julie-Ann, “and there’s a special telephone at school which allows three-way conversations between pupil, interpreter, and parent, so we don’t have to go too long without help from home on any problem.”
“Brother and Sister Williams from Newbury Branch pick us up for church each Sunday,” says Heather. “We enjoy that. There’s a lovely feeling among the members.”
“I love learning everything I can about the Saviour and his church,” says Julie-Ann. “I do home-study seminary, and it always helps me. I find sacrament meetings a bit frustrating sometimes, especially when I can’t keep up with the speakers. I want to understand every word of their message. People are kind and write things down for me, but often talks go too fast to get the full story.”
Both girls are excellent lip readers, however, and are equipped with the latest hearing aids. So skilled are they becoming that they are even learning another language. Both are coping well with French. “It’s difficult,” says Heather. “I have to concentrate much harder than students who hear.”
Reading music has been part of their lives since infancy. “Our mother used to point out how notes go up and down in hymnbooks at church,” says JulieAnn, “and if the congregation doesn’t drown out the piano, I can pick out the beat and sing hymns.”
“We play recorders the same way,” comments Heather. “I feel pulsation of sound through my feet and legs, and with plenty of practice, we get the tunes right. We have a good orchestra here.”
Although Julie-Ann, Heather, and Deborah use their talents to achieve results in life equal to, and often better than, those of people without hearing impairments, they are sometimes disappointed and hurt by the attitudes of many people towards their disability.
“I prefer to be treated just like everyone else,” Heather says. “It’s really embarrassing when I’m in a crowd and someone starts speaking to me very slowly, with wildly waving arms, acting like I’m stupid or something.”
“Yes,” agrees Julie-Ann, “it’s nice to be accepted as part of the group, spoken to normally, and not stared at as if we’re odd. I often feel like telling people, ‘I’m exactly the same inside as you are.’ It makes me heartbroken and depressed when they are afraid or don’t want to understand me.”
“That’s right,” Heather adds. “I don’t always get a question the first time, and if I ask ‘pardon?’ they often say, ‘Oh, never mind,’ and go away! I’d rather they try again and again, so we can learn about each other. I don’t much like tiny conversations with only ‘Hi!’ or ‘How are you doing?’ I’d prefer to talk properly, long discussions, not too fast or too slow, but real conversations with facial expression and feeling.
Perhaps because of a certain isolation that deafness creates for them, all three girls have developed a close, personal relationship with their Heavenly Father.
“I talk to the Lord in prayer much of the time,” says Julie-Ann. “I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit strongly and am constantly grateful for the promptings I receive. We watched a video of general conference. During remarks about keeping high standards and avoiding friendships with the wrong crowd, I felt so warm inside as the Spirit testified this was important advice. I could have cried. I didn’t want that wonderful feeling to go away.”
“I get a similar sensation when I think of my sister Deborah on her mission. I think she’ll be homesick for a while, leaving Northern Ireland. It’s such a lovely country. I remember how I felt. But we’re all excited for her. I look forward to hearing how she gets on. My patriarchal blessing tells me I’ll also go on a mission when I’m 21.”
The Fergusons seem to be a part of fulfilling prophecy. In Isaiah 29:18, the prophet wrote, “In that day shall the deaf hear the words of the book.” [Isa. 29:18] Not only are the Fergusons hearing the truth of the gospel themselves, they are becoming well educated and prepared to share those words with all who care to listen with ears, eyes, hands, and hearts.

Later I climbed the Mount of Olives by way of a very old stone path. The huge stones were polished from the countless sandals of several thousand years. The feet of Jesus probably climbed this path from Jerusalem to Bethany. It was long and steep, and I stopped several times to gulp much needed air and to wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I lifted my eyes to see the top of the hill, I imagined myself to be one of the Savior’s disciples, following him up the path to Bethany. Perhaps I would have stumbled on a projecting rock and called, “Master, wait for me.” Or I might have asked, “Lord, what of the last days?” For a moment I stood there, aboard my own personal time-machine, wondering about the closeness to Christ that I was feeling. As tears came unexpectedly, I understood those I had seen in President David O. McKay’s eyes during a sacrament meeting a few years ago. He had cried in contemplation of the suffering of a close friend, a man called Jesus.

One memorable night a relative and I disagreed about a political issue. She briskly and thoroughly took my comments apart, proving me wrong within earshot of family members. I felt foolish and uninformed—and I probably was. That night as I knelt to pray, I hurried to explain to Heavenly Father how difficult this relative was! I talked on and on. Perhaps I paused in my complaining and the Holy Ghost had a chance to get my attention, because, to my surprise, I next heard myself say, “You probably want me to love her.” Love her? I prayed on, saying something like, “How can I love her? I don’t think I even like her. My heart is hard; my feelings are hurt. I can’t do it.”

Then, surely with help from the Spirit, I had a new thought as I said, “But You love her, Heavenly Father. Would You give me a portion of Your love for her—so I can love her too?” My hard feelings softened, my heart started to change, and I began to see this person differently. I began to sense her real value that Heavenly Father saw. Isaiah writes, “The Lord bindeth up the breach of his people, and healeth the stroke of their wound.”10

Over time the gap between us sweetly closed. But even if she had not accepted my changed heart, I had learned that Heavenly Father will help us love even those we may think are unlovable, if we plead for His aid. The Savior’s Atonement is a conduit for the constant flow of charity from our Father in Heaven. We must choose to abide in this love in order to have charity for all.

At the bottom of the brassy afternoon sky an immense herd of buffalo grazed peacefully on the wind-tossed prairie grass that rolled toward the edge of the earth like a giant ocean wave.
A great bull buffalo lifted its massive head and gazed contentedly at the seemingly endless stretch of unblemished grandness. After a moment, the big head shifted toward a faint rumbling beyond the sandstone tableland.
The rumbling continued, and the great beast snorted uneasily, its round dark eyes settling on the buttes strewn across the huge yellow plains. Are the thick dark blasts of smoke rising behind them a racing prairie fire? he worried.
Now a number of feeding heads lifted and joined the big one’s stiffened gaze as the rumbling grew louder. The huffing black smoke boldly befouled the copper heavens. Calves pressed close to their mothers’ bulky, shaggy sides for safety. Young adults hoofed about, tossing their heads and snorting reckless challenges. And the aged ones, ill at ease, breathed cautioning grunts and waited faithfully on the big bull, whose heart-pounding curiosity held him fast. One ancient beast with a chipped horn and ghostly blue eyes stomped to and fro, trying to get the lead animal to hearken to the wisdom of retreat, but the goliath bison seemed rooted to the earth.
Suddenly an awesome, wood-burning monster with a boiler stack lunged out from behind the mesa, spitting darkness at the sun and roaring loudly.
Then, just as the big bull bellowed a warning to retreat, a dozen rifle barrels were thrust out the windows of the chugging steel creature. Gunfire erupted like the sound of a deadly drumroll … and several buffalo fell.
Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the locomotive was snaking its way across the sea of grass, leaving in its path a dirty sky and a sprawling sadness.
The big buffalo lay motionless a long while amidst his dead and dying companions, finally straining to sniff one last time the little purple flowers that had softened his fall. Then he seemed to give himself up to the heavens.
The October afternoon was overtaken by lengthening mesa shadows that stretched over the fallen buffalo like a giant mourning veil. And across it all, the undying wind hymned reverently, sounding like a chorus of lamenting angels.
Along the downward edge of the plateau that stood stark against a blood-red sundown sky moved the hurried gray shadows of prairie wolves. Their hungry cries blended with nature’s sorry song.
The old buffalo’s ghostly blue eyes rounded with terror as the wolves began to move toward him among the dead and the dying. He could almost feel their hot breath. He tried to lift himself up, but the pain was too intense, so he rested quietly among the scent of sweet flowers, waiting for the hungry grays to end his suffering.
A small Sioux hunting party plodded along in the blowing waves of yellow, moonlit grass. Suddenly one of the Sioux, Ten Days Walking, pulled his buffalo runner to a stop and solemnly listened. His pony jerked, but he pulled it back.
Ten Days Walking heard the sound of excited wolves, feasting. He glanced quickly at the small boy warrior who pulled his pony up beside him. It was Little Wind, his ten-year-old son, who relished being with his father more than anything else. In fact, these two Sioux were as inseparable as prairie earth and sky, their feelings running as close as the great buffalo themselves.
Little Wind continued to watch his father, his proud, tired eyes taking in—as they so often did—the horizontal smears of paint on the man’s muscled arms, lines that signified successful horse raids and noble battles won with enemy tribes. This had been the boy’s first hunt, and all the excitement had taken its toll on him. They, and the half-dozen other Indians, had been hunting buffalo for nearly a week. But Little Wind was determined to be strong like his father. He would not show his weariness by complaining.
Little Wind threw back his shoulders, followed his father’s hawk-eyed stare across the wide expanse of grass, and remembered his ailing grandfather’s wise counsel: “Each of us, my child, to be at one with manhood and dignity, must in his turn be strong. He must rise above himself … like an eagle … to the high, noble place of honor. For the best part of any of us, little one, is found in deeds that take us beyond ourselves and make of us the men we are to be.”
Ten Days Walking yelled above the rising wind and plunged his horse forward. Little Wind quickly nudged his moccasined feet into his pony’s flank and bolted after him, followed closely by the other braves who exchanged excited, curious glances.
The feeding wolves retreated reluctantly as the band of Sioux poured out of the darkness, hooting wildly and waving their spears and bows. The snarling animals seemed to dissolve in the growing darkness.
Little Wind could still hear some of them ripping and clawing and tearing at the carcasses. He slipped off his pony and walked among the carcasses. He stumbled over something in the dark … and it moved. It was the old buffalo with the cracked horn and the haunting blue eyes. Little Wind touched its deep carpet of matted fur. There was blood on his hand. It moved again! The boy jumped to his feet. “Father!” he shouted. “This old four-legged still lives!”
Ten Days Walking came to where Little Wind stood and hunkered down beside the ancient creature. He shook his head gloomily. “This one is very old, my son.” He gestured toward the deep wounds. “Its spirit anxiously awaits its journey to the green fields beyond the stars. Mother Earth offers only much pain now. Let this old four-legged be. The Great Spirit calls it home.”
Tears glowed in Little Wind’s big dark eyes. “No, Father,” he humbly objected.
Ten Days Walking looked surprised. “Do you think you know more than your father about such things?”
Little Wind could not swallow his feelings, so he meekly answered, “Was it not you, Father, who said that a man should not limit his compassion to one of his own kind?”
The Big Sioux warrior put his hand on the boy’s small shoulder and spoke softly but firmly. “Would it not be more compassionate to give this old one back to the Great Spirit? There is so little life left in him. And he suffers so.”
After a silence, Ten Days Walking drew his large bone-handled skinning knife and prepared to end the animal’s misery. But Little Wind placed his hand on his father’s arm and pleaded, “Grandfather suffers. He is very old. There is little life left in him too. But do you not go to the high mountains to pray for him every day?”
Ten Days Walking stared deeply at his small son, his dusky eyes misting with heartfelt admiration. The boy seemed suddenly far beyond his years. Little Wind’s three-day fast and sacrifice on the hilltop to purify himself in order to become fit for God’s use before leaving on the hunt now showed itself in the boy’s touching wisdom and uncommon humanity. “Such kindness,” Ten Days Walking uttered, “will one day return itself upon you, my son, whether this old four-legged brother lives or dies. And this is because of the goodness of your heart.”
Ten Days Walking instructed six of his braves to load the old buffalo onto a travois and secure it with rawhide thongs. After all had been taken from the field of death that could be carried, the party of Sioux rode off under a predawn sky. They glanced back sadly at the leavings of meat that could not be toted, but offered it up to their hungry brothers, the wolves, that crept back on the shadows of the hunters’ disappearance.
Little Wind was barely aware of the grand welcome he and his father and the other braves received two days later upon their return to the village. Nor was he aware of the fires that were lit or the prayers of gratitude that were chanted in the smoke of sacred pipes, nor even of the many buffalo paunches (stomach linings) that boiled welcome broth on that cold autumn night. He was much too busy assisting the village holy man work medicine over the old buffalo. They were all quartered in a kind of earthen lodge constructed in the manner of a dome-shaped sweathouse. Here healing vapors could work upon the afflictions of the huge beast.
All the next day Little Wind remained inside the lodge with the old buffalo. His mother, Laughing Water, periodically sent his little sister, Night Fawn, to the earthen lodge with servings of broth, pemmican, and jerky.
Ten Days Walking emerged from a purification lodge when the sun had all but completed its journey across the sky. He had entered the lodge early that morning to bathe in the smoke of sweet grass in order to cleanse himself of the evil that his growing bitterness toward his white brothers had implanted in his heart and mind. He removed a wreath of sage from his head, brushed a veil of sweat from his eyes, and peered through the windy haze of evening fires toward the earthen lodge.
The wind swept across the wintering landscape and moaned about the little hut like a dying thing, pulling at the buffalo hide door and splintering the fragile patch of light inside. Such a long, uncertain vigil for a boy so small, thought Ten Days Walking. He moved off through a maze of huge meat drying racks, taking time out of his concerns to smile at a group of playing children. He paused to better secure a rawhide rope about a pony that was picketed to pegs outside his tepee; then before disappearing inside, he looked back toward the earthen lodge in the icy blast. His heart welled up with a matchless love and reverence and a hope that the Great Spirit would either let death soon take its course or let a small boy’s prayers be answered.
Little Wind’s sore red eyes watched with fixed interest as the medicine man drew a hot coal from the fire with a small forked stick, lit a twisted piece of grass, and cleansed his hands in the smoke. He then applied healing herbs to the buffalo’s wounds.
Little Wind’s eyes followed the smoke from the fire as it lifted through the hole in the top of the lodge toward the land of the Sky People above, and somewhere within that smoke a boy’s continuing prayer ascended with it, a plea that the Great One would consider one of his lesser but noble creations and sustain its life.
The holy man rose to go, then he paused and regarded the boy. “Our work is done, small one. What is left to be done is the Great Spirit’s to do.”
Little Wind pulled his blanket up about him and put another piece of wood on the smoldering fire. The flames licked higher and burned back the edges of night. He would not leave the old buffalo—not yet. He would stay a little longer. Just a little longer.
The boy brushed his hand gently across the massive bulk that slowly rose and fell, his exhausted gaze settling on the shadows that danced giddily on the walls like memories, memories that rose and fell like the sides of the old buffalo and stole him away …
He had been only five the night his people shuffled their feet around the big village fire, making happy shadows that stomped about in the great circle under the moon. Merrily they chanted their thanks to the Great One beyond the stars for the coming of his little sister, Night Fawn, to Mother Earth.
The kindly fire and the remembrance of happy chantings disrupted his stubborn vigil, and he rested his head on the old buffalo’s soft, warm side. He listened for a long moment to the steady throb of its great heart, beating like a distant drum in the land of the Sky People beyond the wind and the night and an old four-legged’s earthly pain.
Suddenly he felt a stir beneath his cheek. The buffalo had moved. Its great body trembled, and a deep breath sighed through its nostrils.
Little Wind lifted his head. The old buffalo’s blue eyes opened and looked at him, no longer clouded with pain but clear and calm.
The boy smiled through his tears as the buffalo slowly struggled to its feet.
The holy man returned to the lodge and stood quietly in the doorway with Ten Days Walking and Laughing Water and Night Fawn.
Outside, the night wind moved gently across the prairie, and the stars glimmered like fire holes in the robe of the Great Spirit.
The old buffalo turned its head toward Little Wind once more, then walked out into the moonlit darkness, as if following a path known only to the spirits.
Little Wind watched until the great shape vanished among the shadows. Then he bowed his head and gave thanks.
Ten Days Walking put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your prayers have been heard, my son.”
“And the Great Spirit has shown us,” said the holy man, “that even the weakest life may be renewed when met with compassion.”
Little Wind looked up at the sky and whispered a prayer of his own, his heart full and still.
And in the quiet of the night, the village slept.

“Come on!” Vicky’s brother called. “Let’s go play with the Rowes!”
The Rowes were their new neighbors. They had moved to Bosnia and Herzegovina from the United States. They had kids the same age as Vicky and her siblings. But they didn’t speak Bosnian. Vicky was the only one in her family who spoke English. She translated so they could play together.
Vicky sat with Mrs. Rowe on the porch while the other kids played.
“Your family seems different,” Vicky said. “In a good way.”
Mrs. Rowe smiled. “Would you like to come to church with us? That might help you see why we’re different. Our church doesn’t have a building here in Bosnia, so we have church with our family at home.”
Vicky was curious when she arrived at the Rowes’ house on Sunday. First they sang a song. One of the children said a prayer. Then Mr. Rowe prayed and passed bread and water to each person. They said it was called the sacrament. After that their daughter Jessie gave a talk.
“Heavenly Father loves us. He speaks to us through the Holy Ghost,” Jessie said. “Sometimes the Holy Ghost gives us a peaceful feeling. Or sometimes He gives us a thought.”
The next day, Vicky walked to the store to buy bread. On her way home, she was about to pass by some trash cans when a voice in her mind stopped her. Stay away, it said.
Vicky stood still. Suddenly, a car came spinning around the corner. CRASH! It slammed into the garbage cans.
Vicky took a deep breath. She was so glad she listened to the voice!
Later, Vicky told Mrs. Rowe the story. “Was that the Holy Ghost?”
“Sounds like it. Sometimes the Holy Ghost warns us of danger.”
“God protected me,” Vicky said. “I’ll always listen to the Holy Ghost.”
Vicky kept going to the Rowes’ house for church every Sunday. Then Vicky shared the Book of Mormon with her mom. Soon her whole family was learning about the gospel from the Rowes. Vicky translated for everyone.
One day Mr. Rowe asked Vicky’s family a question. Vicky repeated it in Bosnian. “Will you follow the example of Jesus Christ by being baptized?”
Vicky waited. She wanted to be baptized. But she was nervous about what her family would say.
Finally, Vicky’s dad spoke. “Da.”
“Da,” her family said.
Vicky was so happy she felt like her heart was going to burst. “Yes,” she said to Mr. Rowe. “Yes, we will.”
A week later, Vicky and her family drove for five hours to the nearest Church building. Vicky felt happy as she stepped into the water to be baptized. She felt even happier when she was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Now she would have the Holy Ghost with her always.

Many wonderful, humble women in the Church provide dedicated service without realizing the far-reaching impact their lives have—as examples of temporal service, but also as legacies of spiritual strength. One such woman is my grandmother, Cherie Petersen. She has served faithfully in quiet callings all her life. If you asked her, she would claim that she doesn’t have many talents to offer the world. However, as I have started to learn about her life, I’ve realized just how much her spiritual strength has affected my life.
Cherie’s parents stopped attending church and divorced when she was still very young, so she grew up with a mother, Florence, who was always working. Florence had been neglected as a child, as she was raised in a boarding school while her mother, Georgia, lived a worldly life. In spite of the challenges in her upbringing, Cherie remained active in the gospel, faithfully attending church with her great-grandmother Elizabeth’s family or with friends. She saw in their families what she wanted for her own. She didn’t know exactly what a family should be like, but she knew what it shouldn’t be, and she was determined to have her future family be different.
Cherie’s husband—my grandpa Dell—once told me, “To have a testimony, you have to want it. Cherie always wanted a testimony.” Though their early years of marriage were filled with struggles, they were determined to remain strong as a family. They were less active during the first year of their marriage because of Dell’s work schedule, but a call to serve in the Primary prompted Cherie to begin attending, and Dell soon joined her at church as a deacons quorum advisor. They’ve both been active and strong in the Church ever since. Cherie’s willingness to serve and determination to raise a strong family helped my mother become the strong woman she is, and my mother’s example has helped define my life, especially as I now start my own family.
My grandmother’s righteous decisions have impacted her family generations past what she could see as a young woman. However, the spiritual influence of the women in my family stretches even farther back. Cherie gained much of her own spiritual strength from observing her great-grandmother (my third great-grandmother) Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s example of faith and testimony reached past two generations of inactivity to help her great-granddaughter Cherie reverse a trend of broken families and return to the Church.

But the Kirtland story doesn’t end with these marvelous manifestations. A year after the temple’s dedication, the community was fraying. An international economic crisis led to massive unemployment in the United States. Banks failed across the country, including a small bank established by Church leaders in Kirtland to spur development of the community. Joseph Smith and other Church leaders desperately tried to save the economy of the community. But the tide of the global economic crisis was too much. People began to lose jobs and homes. Many began to murmur against God and the Church. Why had the Lord allowed His people to fail economically? Some began to whisper and then proclaim that Joseph was a fallen prophet.

At one meeting in the summer of 1837 in the Kirtland Temple, Joseph Smith Sr., the Church patriarch, spoke in his son’s absence. As he spoke, a dissenter tried to pull him from the pulpit. When William Smith defended his father, a fellow Apostle threatened to kill William with a sword. Other men with knives and pistols surrounded William. The temple, which had been a place of sacredness and spirituality a year earlier, was now a place of violence, dissension, and chaos.

When Joseph Smith returned to Kirtland, most Church members sustained him as the prophet, but three Apostles were removed from the Quorum of the Twelve. Economic problems had turned into spiritual problems. Within a few more months, the Lord told Joseph to leave Kirtland for the safety of his family and for the sake of his own life.

Eyewitness accounts testify to the difficulties of that time. Vilate Kimball, the wife of Apostle Heber C. Kimball, sent a letter to her husband, who was then serving as one of the first missionaries in England. “I have no doubt but it will pain your heart,” she wrote to Heber, telling him about the dissenters. “They profess to believe the Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants but in works deny them.”

Vilate knew that Joseph was not perfect. He had made mistakes in the Kirtland economic crisis. And she continued to love many among the dissenters. But she saw a deeper lesson in the events of 1837: “The Lord says, he that cannot endure chastisement but denies me cannot be sanctified.”

In the same letter, Marinda Hyde added a note to her husband, Orson, also an Apostle serving in England. Marinda’s older brother was one of the Apostles who had left the Church. “Such times in Kirtland you never witnessed as we now have, for it seems that all confidence in each other is gone,” she wrote.

I would like to say that running made the last treatments easier, but it didn’t. I have had my last treatment, and it was the very hardest for me. It seemed like the effects were doubled. I felt like I was being raked through hot coals one more time and that someone had deliberately put twice the amount of coals on the fire.
During that last treatment, my father sat on my bed and put cold compacts on me. The treatment magnified everything. I didn’t want anyone to even touch me. Just being touched hurt. When my father put the compacts on me, I wanted to yell at him and tell him to take them off. But I could see in his eyes how helpless he felt. I realized how much he needed to feel that he was helping me in some way. It made me feel good deep inside to know that he was feeling better because he was helping me. Sometimes you have to take to give.

Two hundred and six miles (332 kilometers) is the distance from Logan, Utah, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It’s also the distance Peter Johnson and his friends pedaled to win the relay division of the LOTOJA road cycling race, whizzing through mountain passes and three states in nine hours. LOTOJA (LOgan TO JAckson) is one of the longest single-day races in the United States. It draws some 1,500 cyclists each September, many of them pros. Peter’s relay team is the youngest ever to come in first.
It takes a lot of time and practice to win such a major competition. Why make the effort? For me, things like exercising and working out are fun. When you’re on a tough hill climb, you’re not necessarily thinking about how much fun you’re having. But afterward, there’s an awesome feeling of accomplishment that you only get from working hard. I like that.
Why is being physically active and staying fit important for you? I couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t include some sort of fitness. I love the feeling that I get knowing that even at the end of a long race or a hard soccer game, I could still go longer. Besides, who doesn’t want to be healthy?
You keep pretty busy. How do you balance sports, school, and seminary? Seminary has always been a priority for me. I have had to give up other classes in order to attend seminary, but I know that I am blessed when I do the right thing. A lot of the time school does conflict with sports, but you figure out ways to work through it.
How do you maintain your standards when people at school don’t always make the best choices? Most people at school know I’m an avid follower of my faith. So when it comes to parties, dating, and things like movies, they know where I stand and what they can expect from me. I take pride in living the standards of the Church, and as a result, my peers have come to respect me and my choices.
How has prayer helped you in your life? I have a strong testimony of prayer. The scriptures say to pray about everything (see 2 Nephi 32:9), so I constantly pray for help in school, sports, you name it. When it comes to cycling, I’m pretty sure I’ve never started a race without saying a prayer.

Lisa glanced at the talent show sign-ups as she walked down the hall to math class. She paused for a second and then kept walking. No way! No more talent shows. Not after what happened last year.
Onstage—in front of everybody—she’d forgotten the words to her song!
It was one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.
So why was she even thinking about putting herself through that again? What was the point? So that’s that, she decided. Not gonna happen.
At home that night, Lisa got out her violin to practice. She loved playing the new fiddle song Mom had been teaching her.
Her fingers pressed down on the strings. The square-dance song made her feet start tapping.
This would be a perfect song for the talent show, Lisa thought. But playing her violin in front of everyone sounded even scarier than singing! There were too many notes she could forget.
“That’s sounding good,” Mom said when Lisa finished the song. “Now try it faster.” Mom adjusted the metronome. The tick-tick-ticks that told Lisa how fast to play started to speed up.
Lisa concentrated on her fingering and the notes came out fast and bright. Now she really wanted to dance! Mom played some backup notes on her own violin that helped Lisa keep her place.
Suddenly Lisa had an idea. A few other kids had music teachers playing backup music for their songs. If anything could help Lisa not feel so nervous, it would be Mom playing with her.
“Mom?”
Lisa set down her violin. Mom turned off the metronome. It sounded really quiet all of a sudden.
“Yes?”
Lisa hesitated. Then she blurted out, “Would you play this with me in the talent show? You know, like how we played it just now?”
Mom grinned. “If we can both wear cowgirl hats, you’ve got a deal.”
“Yes! This will be awesome!”
Before Lisa knew it, the night of the talent show had come. She peeked from behind the curtain as her turn got closer. There was such a big crowd that people had to stand up in the back. She was frightened and excited. Fright-icited, she thought. A little of both.
“Our turn,” Mom said as she gave Lisa a quick hug.
Lisa said a quick prayer that things would go OK.
The hug and prayer helped chase away the jitters. They carefully adjusted their cowgirl hats, then walked to the center of the stage.
Mom started playing the introduction. Lisa put her bow to her violin … and messed up! She came in too soon! Was this happening again?
But Mom kept on playing, and Lisa was determined to continue. Besides, after the intro came Lisa’s favorite part. The fun section.
Listening to Mom’s steady playing, Lisa launched into the melody and started hitting the notes with more confidence.
The crowd clapped and cheered. Lisa even began tapping her feet while she played. The rest of the song flew by. It was so fun!
By the time the music ended and they took their bows, Lisa could hardly remember those few goofy notes she’d hit early in the song. Mom grabbed Lisa’s hand, and they smiled at each other. Lisa felt terrific.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, Lisa prayed silently. Thank you for giving me such a great mom.

Some years ago, my husband, David, and I took our young children to a lake to vacation. He has always had the greatest confidence in their ability to do anything for which they are prepared. He taught a small son, age nine, how to manage a one-man sailboat, then let our son take the boat by himself out onto the lake. He joyfully sailed away, his bright life jacket and silhouette getting smaller and smaller against the horizon. Finally, we felt that Dave should make sure all was well, so in another little boat he sailed out to him. When he arrived Doug was sitting calmly in the boat, but he had forgotten how to turn it around! The thing I love was his response to his dad. He looked up and said, “I knew you’d come.”

I recently represented the Church at the annual G20 Interfaith Forum in Italy. I was encouraged, even buoyed up, when I met with government and faith leaders from around the world. I realized wounds and differences can be resolved and even healed when we honor God, the Father of us all, and Jesus Christ, His Son. The Great Healer of all is our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

I had an interesting moment as I closed my talk. The previous seven speakers had not closed in any manner of a faith tradition or in the name of God. As I spoke, I thought, “Do I just say thank you and sit down, or do I close ‘in the name of Jesus Christ’?” I remembered who I was, and I knew the Lord would have me say His name to conclude my message. So I did. Looking back, it was my opportunity to express my belief; and I had the freedom of religion to bear my witness of His holy name.

It was a long night, but the youth of the Bloemfontein Branch of the Sandton South Africa Stake kept skating. The youths sponsored the 15-hour roller skating marathon to raise money for their camp programs. Several nonmembers were participating in the marathon, giving the youth lots to talk about as they made the rounds of the basketball court.
The event drew local media attention as well as support from branch members.

I never knew that winning a championship baseball game could make me so miserable. Well, actually, winning the game felt great. It wasn’t until afterward that I began to feel miserable. Coach announced that the regional play-off was just five days away. On Sunday!

Until a few weeks ago, it wouldn’t have mattered to me what day the play-off was. Then Mom and I began meeting with the LDS missionaries, and we liked what they were teaching us. We were even reading the Book of Mormon. We had talked about keeping the Sabbath holy, and I didn’t think that playing in ball games—even regional play-offs—was doing that. But how I wanted to play in that game!

Dad and Mom ran to meet me on the diamond. They were as excited about the victory as I had been at first. "Son, you were fantastic out there!" Dad crowed.

"I knew you’d do it, Kimball!" Then Mom looked at me closely and asked if I was OK.

Dad answered for me. "Sure. He’s fine—just a little tired after a game like that. What he needs now is some celebrating. How about going to the Palace for a pizza?"

I didn’t worry about the game for the rest of the evening—no one worries about anything when Dad is around. If I ever want to be cheered up, I go to him. But if I ever need help with problems, Mom is the one I talk to.

While waiting for our pizza, Dad "interviewed" me. Picking up a breadstick, he pointed it at me, saying, "Don’t be afraid of the microphone, young man. Speak right into it and describe exactly how you made that fantastic catch."

That night, when Mom came in to say good night, all my concerns returned.

"All right, Kimball, out with it. Something happened at the baseball game, didn’t it?"

"Coach told us that regional play-offs are this Sunday—when we talk with the elders." Dad had agreed to let us meet with the elders as long as we did it on Sundays, and in the front room (so that we would be out of his way). To Dad, church or anything religious was for Sunday. He didn’t want it interfering with the rest of the week.

Mom sat down on my bed. "What’s on your mind?"

"Well, would it be wrong for me to play that one game?" I hit my pillow. "I just don’t know what to do. Could the elders tell me?"

Mom looked thoughtful. Then she said, "Kimball, I’m glad you care so much about doing what’s right." She asked me to read 1 Nephi 16:17–32 [1 Ne. 16:17–32] and discuss it with her in the morning.

The next morning after Dad left for work, I helped Mom clean up the breakfast dishes. "Kimball, what did you get out of those verses?" she asked.

"Well, one time Lehi and his family were traveling in the wilderness and needed food. Nephi was hunting and broke his bow, and since his brothers’ bows were broken, too, he made himself a new one."

"Then what did he do?"

"He didn’t know where he should go to hunt, so he asked his father, Lehi." All of a sudden I knew what Mom was getting at, and it scared me. "You think I should ask Dad about playing ball on the Sabbath?" I wasn’t sure he even knew what the Sabbath was!

"Why not, Kimball? He’s your father, the head of our family."

"Mom, that worked for Nephi—his dad was a prophet. But Dad doesn’t know anything about religious stuff."

Mom got out the Book of Mormon. "Kimball, read verse 20 to me." She pointed. "This part."

"‘… and also my father began to murmur against the Lord his God,’" I read.

"So even Lehi was complaining. Does that sound like the way a prophet, or a father, should act?"

I shook my head.

"But Nephi went to him anyway and asked him where to hunt. And you know what? Lehi was sorry for complaining and for not behaving like the head of the family should. He repented and made himself worthy to get an answer from the Lord so that he could give Nephi an answer."

Then I saw that to my mom, this wasn’t just about playing ball on Sunday. It was about trying to help Dad begin to change—like Nephi had helped his father to get back on track. When the missionaries had talked to us about the plan of salvation and temples and sealing and things like that, Mom’s eyes had been shiny with tears. Now I realized just how much she wanted Dad to be a part of it. I wanted it too. "OK, Mom. I’ll give it a try."

I still wanted to talk to the elders, though, so I called Elder Adams and told him my problem and what Mom had said. He just told me what a wise mom I had. Since he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, I had to gather my courage and ask Dad.

That night after supper, as Mom headed for the kitchen to get dessert, she looked straight at me. I took a deep breath. "Dad?"

"Aye, me mate," he answered in his best Australian accent, which didn’t make it any easier to get serious.

"My championship game is coming up, you know, and I’m wondering if I should, well, maybe not play in it." Dad looked shocked, so I hurried and added, "Well, it’s on the Sabbath—I mean, Sunday—and I don’t know what to do."

"Ah, a spiritual matter. Have you talked to your mother?" he asked, a little amused.

"She said I should get your advice."

"Oh? What about those two young men? Isn’t that what they’re for—to solve the world’s problems? Did you talk to them?"

"Yes. They said I should talk to you, the head of our family." I was sort of embarrassed to say that last part, but I thought it might help to point it out to him.

Dad was quiet. Finally, pulling the water pitcher to him, he stared at it and said, "Let’s take a look in our trusty crystal ball. Now, to play? Or not to play?" He studied the pitcher for a long time. "The crystal is cloudy. Maybe I need to change the water or something." He shrugged. "Sorry, son. I just don’t know. Talk to Mom about it again. Here she comes now, with an awesome dessert."

That was the end of our talk, the talk that was going to help me make my decision and to bring us closer together as a family. Dad had joked his way through it. I managed to keep back the tears of disappointment and embarrassment until I got to my room. Then I prayed. It helped some to ask Heavenly Father to help me not be mad at Dad and to know about playing on Sunday.

Mom came to my room before I went to sleep. She tried to comfort me, but she was as disappointed as I was. When I told her that I had decided not to play the game, she felt a little better. I didn’t, exactly.

The next morning, I told the coach that I wouldn’t be playing in the game because it was on Sunday. I could tell that he didn’t agree or even understand. But on the way home, I had a nice, peaceful feeling and I knew that I had made the right choice.

None of us mentioned the game again until Sunday morning. Dad looked out the window and commented on what a perfect day it was for a game. But he didn’t do his usual weatherman imitation.

That day at church, I figured the elders would ask me about my decision, but I didn’t see them at the meetings.

Pulling into our driveway after church, we saw their bikes in front of our house. Before, whenever they beat us home, they waited for us on the porch. But they weren’t there. We walked in and heard voices—not from the front room, our usual place, but from the family room. Dad was with the missionaries! On the end tables were scriptures, pamphlets, pictures, and glasses of lemonade.

As Mom joined Dad on the sofa, he squeezed her hand, smiled, then looked at me. "The other night, Kimball, you gave me the shock of my life by asking for my opinion on Sabbath ballplaying. I was caught off guard. I felt bad that you wanted spiritual advice and I couldn’t give you any. I responded the only way I knew how, by joking. I apologize, son."

Dad paused. I’d never heard him speak this long without cracking a joke.

"I figured that the elders could solve your problems easier than I could, so I was even more surprised when you said that they told you to come to me. Then, when I realized that they cared more about helping our family than gaining converts, I was impressed."

Elder Adams interrupted. "Your wife gave Kimball that counsel first, sir."

Dad looked at her in surprise.

"It was something I picked up from Lehi and Nephi in the Book of Mormon," Mom said, winking at me.

"Well," Dad went on, "when I saw that this church wants to build me up as the father in the home, I decided to hear what they have to say. That’s when I called these two young cyclists and caught them before they took off for the ‘Tour de France.’"

Mom spoke up, "Why don’t we continue this discussion over some lasagna. It’s in the oven, just waiting for us." Eagerly we started for the kitchen.

As I set the table, I thought about Dad calling the elders and about his apology, and I thought, Dad might have some Lehi in him, after all.

Then I started thinking about Lehi and his family. They had a hard life in the wilderness. I wondered if Lehi ever joked around with them, just to help make their lives a little happier. Dad would have done that, I thought. Grabbing a breadstick, I spoke into it. "Listen, everyone. I want you to meet my dad—a modern-day Lehi!"

“We would go down,” Elder Hockett said, “usually on a very cold Saturday morning, and work all day picking pecans in an elderly couple’s 12-acre orchard near Atlanta, Georgia. We’d pick all the pecans we could, sell them, then donate the money to the welfare program. And I remember as a priest, working in the regional welfare cannery, cooking chili for eight or nine hours. And I always remember the father-and-son campouts. My brother and I didn’t have a father, and some of the brethren would always say, ‘Can I be your father?’ or ‘I’ll be your father again this year if you want me to.’ We never felt left out in our ward.”

Francisco, age 8, is sometimes persecuted at school because he is a member of the Church. One day two boys he was playing with started to hit him. One of them hit him very hard on the head. “I didn’t fight with them,” he says, “because I don’t like to fight and I know it is bad. Also something told me not to fight with them. It was the Holy Ghost.”
The director of the school called in the parents of all three boys to help solve the problem. After the meeting, the director told Francisco’s parents how impressed she was with him for not fighting, for telling the truth, and for setting a good example for the other children. “My friends were punished for what they had done—they couldn’t go out at recess for one or two weeks,” Francisco remembers. He is grateful the Holy Ghost prompted him to do what was right.

Some thirty-five years ago I was seated in the choir seats of the Assembly Hall situated on the southeast corner of Temple Square. The setting was stake conference. Elder Joseph Fielding Smith and Elder Alma Sonne had been assigned to reorganize our stake presidency. The Aaronic Priesthood, including members of bishoprics, were providing the music for the conference. Those of us who served as bishops were singing along with our young men. As we concluded singing our first selection, Elder Smith stepped to the pulpit and announced the names of the new stake presidency. I am confident the other members of the presidency had been made aware of their callings, but I had not. After reading my name, Elder Smith announced, “If Brother Monson is willing to respond to this call we shall be pleased to hear from him now.” As I stood at the pulpit and gazed out on that sea of faces, I remembered the song we had just sung. Its title was “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say No.” I selected as my acceptance theme “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say Yes.”

Carlos was a 10-year-old who liked to run, jump, and play. He also liked to ask lots of questions. His Primary teacher loved him. She would often say to him, “It is very important for you to learn the things we are teaching in Primary. Someday you will grow up to be a priesthood holder, a father, and a leader in the Church, and you will need to know these things.” Carlos thought that his teacher was telling him that just so he would be reverent. However, he began to listen and learn. When Carlos grew up, he did receive the priesthood, he became a father, and he was called to be a leader in the Church. He remembered what his Primary teacher had said to him, and he was glad that he had listened and learned.

I am only 11 years old, but for the past few years I’ve received a lot of opposition for my decision not to watch PG-13 movies. Several friends, and even some of their moms, have tried to convince me that a particular movie would be OK for me to watch because they had seen it and thought it was good. Once I chose not to attend a birthday party because they were going to see a PG-13 movie. At another party, out of 20 girls ages nine to twelve, only one other girl and I didn’t want to watch a PG-13 movie.
In My Gospel Standards it says, “I will only read and watch things that are pleasing to Heavenly Father.” There are reasons why a movie is rated PG-13. So even though I’ve been laughed at and made fun of, I feel good knowing that I am choosing to do what I feel Jesus would want me to do.

OK, I have a plan for the test. Margo will copy Heitor’s answers. Then I’ll copy Margo’s. Julia will copy mine.
That’s cheating!
So? Mr. Costa is a bad teacher.
I won’t do that.
But you sit by Heitor! He’s the smartest kid in class. If you don’t help us, we’ll all fail!
I’m just going to study and do my best.
A few days later …
Oh no. I almost failed! And I studied so hard.
But I know I did the right thing. I earned this grade on my own. I think Jesus is proud of me.
Illustrations by Katie McDee