Gospel Story Finder

After one of the Brethren made a report to President Brigham Young (1801–77), he was anxious to leave so as not to impose. But President Young said, “Please sit a spell with me. I am weary of men and things.” How often do we “sit a spell” with spouse, children, colleagues, or friends? Unhurried time seems to be worth more than the same amount of time spent hectically.

Once when I talked to leaders in a foreign world where different ideologies touch their children, I asked how the parents were able to hold their children and keep them from the evil, and their reply was so natural and so proper:

“We train our children in our homes so completely in the way of right and truth that the destructive, godless philosophies and heresies of their other teachers run off without penetrating, like water on a duck’s back, and our children remain true to the faith.”

Ann:
“I love medicine so much, I’d practice it even if I didn’t get paid,” says Dr. Ann Osborn, a four-year convert who graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Stanford School of Medicine in California. She has a list of many accomplishments, including the fact that she was the Most Outstanding Woman in her 1970 graduation class, completing her studies one year ahead of the rest of the students. She graduated in psychology from Harvard, earned her M.D., and served her internship at the LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City. She recently returned to Stanford, where she’s a resident in diagnostic radiology and is fulfilling a National Institute of Health traineeship.
Ann tells of her conversion with gratitude, joy, and the warmest smile:
“Four years ago I was in medical school. I had a Latter-day Saint professor whom I admired very much. He won the teaching award, which was presented by the student body, year after year. At that time I was very disappointed with what I saw in the religious world. I was a Methodist and saw that religion itself had very little effect on people’s lives. One day I asked this professor, who was also my aquatic school instructor, why he was so happy. He told me it was because of his religion, and then he began to tell me the Joseph Smith story. I discredited the golden plates, not knowing what they were, but knew that there had to be something beneath a religion that influenced a Mormon’s life. He promised me that if I’d go to a Latter-day Saint service, I’d find a faith with wonderful depth. I did go and found a beautiful spirit there. I was moved in a way I couldn’t understand, and I lost my control. Feeling tears in my eyes made me angry because I didn’t have a handkerchief, but most of all, I didn’t want to feel that way. I walked out of the meeting, but something told me to go back. I was baptized two weeks later, after having the discussions. In eight months, my sister Lucy was also baptized, and my brother and his wife joined in February 1971. Incidentally, before my brother knew anything about the Church, he asked a Mormon bishop to officiate at his garden wedding because he respected him so much.
“I found myself studying Church history more than medicine. I felt like an infant with so much to learn. For what other reason do we learn as much as we can if not to help the Lord with his work? We need humility about our knowledge to admit that we really need him and can call on him.
“I enjoyed my internship at the LDS hospital very much. I was thrilled to work with physicians who were elders. They work in the intensive care unit with a bottle of consecrated oil. It creates such a different doctor-patient relationship. I chose radiology as my field because it’s an eight-to-five job; there’s very little weekend work, and it leaves plenty of time for family and Church. I look forward to a temple marriage and a family of my own someday.”

Some of my new friends are from Afghanistan. They are really nice. On Christmas, we took new coats to them. They were so happy to not be cold anymore. But more importantly, they were happy to know they were not forgotten.
Camdyn L., age 8, Washington, USA

On another occasion we were returning from area conferences in Europe, and we had a rather extended layover in New York City. Although tired and weary from his rigorous schedule, President Kimball eagerly visited with six missionaries who were en route to the Germany Munich Mission. He inquired about their families, their personal feelings about serving on missions, and then he charged them to be the best missionaries in their mission. He encouraged them to be diligent and faithful and promised that success would accompany such efforts. The missionaries left feeling uplifted in spirit and determined to serve valiantly. President Kimball edifies and inspires others.

Here is an experience from the April 2013 general conference:
Some 60 students from the Brigham Young University Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies gathered on the shore of the Sea of Galilee last April to watch the Sunday morning session of general conference. A live Internet broadcast of the meeting was projected on the side of a shed located a short distance from the water. The students were in Galilee as part of a 10-day trip to the region. They recognized and appreciated the significance of the event.
Jennie Smithson, one of the students, said that it was a wonder “to be instructed by latter-day prophets and apostles while imagining ancient apostles being instructed on these exact same shores by Christ Himself.”

This was around the time our adult children were starting to come home for Sunday dinners with their spouses. During the week, I found myself making lists in my mind of things I could remind them of on Sunday, like “Maybe try and help out more with the kids when you’re home” or “Don’t forget to be a good listener.”
When I read Brother Maxwell’s comment, I threw away the lists and silenced that critical voice, so when I saw my grown children for that brief time each week, I focused on the many positive things they were already doing. When our oldest son, Ryan, passed away a few years later, I remember being grateful our time together was happier and more positive.

During an interview in Nairobi, Kenya, Elder Nelson commented, “We’ve got Latter-day Saint chapels. We have a stake here [in] Nairobi. We had a stake conference today. It was a thrill to meet with the people. More than a thousand people gathered, [and they were so] reverent [and had a] beautiful choir, [an] excellent stake presidency, [and a] patriarch on the stand. How can I express my joy when I see such progress?”12

The late Mother Teresa once said, “The world is hungry not only for food, but also for beauty.” In November 2006, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was presented with an award named in her honor, recognizing “the achievements of those who beautify the world, especially in the fields of religion, social justice, and the arts.”
“This is the only choir that has touched the entire world with its beauty,” said Dan Paulos, director of the St. Bernadette Institute of Sacred Art, which bestows the Mother Teresa Award. “There are a lot of choirs out there, but none so remarkable. It’s a gift of God, and it should be shared with the world.”
Choir members were honored in a simple ceremony following the weekly broadcast of Music and the Spoken Word on Sunday, November 19, 2006. The Very Reverend Joseph Mayo, Rector of the Cathedral of the Madeline, presented the award to Mac Christensen, choir president, and Craig Jessop, music director, who accepted it on behalf of the choir.
“We are honored to accept this award named after this saintly woman, Mother Teresa,” noted Scott L. Barrick, choir general manager.
The Institute developed the award program to “rightfully acknowledge spiritual accomplishments in this secular world.”
The statuette is a modernized representation of Mother Teresa. Laureates are nominated by the public at large and are selected by the Board of Directors of the Mother Teresa Awards.
The all-volunteer choir consists of 350 men and women representing many different backgrounds, professions, and ages. The choir has become world-renowned through its many recordings, tours, and weekly TV and radio broadcasts.
Previous recipients of the honor include Pope John Paul II, Maya Angelou, Nelson Mandela, and Jimmy Carter.

A few weeks ago, while studying again the message President Russell M. Nelson delivered in the last general conference, and while pondering on the Sabbath day, I felt a deep gratitude for the blessing and privilege of being able to partake of the sacrament. For me that is a very solemn, sacred, and spiritual moment. I greatly enjoy sacrament meeting.

While pondering, I carefully studied the blessings on the bread and the water. I read and deeply meditated on the prayers and the ordinance of the sacrament. I began to go over in my mind and in my heart the events that are connected to it.

In a spirit of meditation, I reflected upon that day, the first day of the feast of the unleavened bread, when Jesus, in response to His disciples’ question about where to prepare for the Passover, answered them, saying, “Go into the city to such a man, and say unto him, The Master saith, My time is at hand; I will keep the passover at thy house with my disciples.”7

I tried to visualize in my mind the disciples buying food and carefully preparing the table to eat with Him on that special day: a table for 13 people, Him and His twelve disciples, whom He loved.

I cried as I visualized Christ eating with them and declaring, “Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.”8

I thought about the saddened disciples asking Him, “Lord, is it I?”9

And when Judas asked Him the same question, He replied calmly, “Thou hast said.”10

I could visualize hands that had healed, comforted, edified, and blessed, breaking the bread as Jesus said, “Take, eat; this is my body.”11

Then He took a cup filled with wine and gave thanks and gave the cup to them, saying, “Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.”12

In my mind I looked at the disciples one by one and saw in their eyes their concern for the Master, whom they loved greatly. It was as if I were sitting there with them, watching everything. I felt an intense pain in my heart, full of grief and sorrow for what He was about to experience for me.

My soul was filled by an overwhelming desire to be a better person. In repentance and sorrow, I fervently wished to be able to dry and avoid the spilling of at least a few drops of His blood shed in Gethsemane.

I then pondered about the sacrament we partake of every week in remembrance of Him. While doing so, I meditated upon each word of the blessings on the bread and the water. I deeply reflected on the words “and always remember him” in the blessing on the bread and “that they do always remember him” in the blessing on the water.13

I meditated on what it means to always remember Him.

To me it means:
To remember His premortal life, when this beautiful planet was made by Him.14
To remember His humble birth in a manger in Bethlehem of Judea.15
To remember when, even as a 12-year-old boy, He taught and preached to the doctors in the temple.16
To remember when He went aside privately into a desert to prepare for His mortal ministry.17
To remember when He was transfigured before His disciples.18
To remember when He instituted the sacrament at the Last Supper with them.19
To remember when He went to the Garden of Gethsemane and suffered so intensely for our sins, pains, disappointments, and illnesses that He bled from every pore.20
To remember when, after so much suffering and severe pain, even yet in Gethsemane, He was betrayed with a kiss by one of the disciples whom He called a friend.21
To remember when He was taken to Pilate and to Herod for trial.22
To remember when He was humiliated, buffeted, spat upon, smitten, and scourged with a whip that tore His flesh.23
To remember when a crown of thorns was brutally put upon His head.24
To remember that He had to carry His own cross to Golgotha and that He was nailed to the cross there, suffering every physical and spiritual pain.25
To remember that at the cross, with His bowels full of charity, He looked at those who crucified Him and raised His eyes to heaven, pleading, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”26
To remember when He, knowing He had fulfilled His mission of saving all mankind, gave up His spirit into the hands of His Father, our Father.27
To remember His Resurrection, which ensures our own resurrection and the possibility to live beside Him for all eternity, depending on our choices.28

The winter of 1848 was difficult and challenging for the pioneer settlers in the Salt Lake Valley. During the summer of 1847, Brigham Young had declared that the Saints had finally reached their destination. “This is the right place,” said Brigham Young, who had been shown in a vision where the Saints were to be established. The early members of the Church had endured tremendous adversity as the Restoration of the gospel unfurled. They had been driven from their homes, persecuted, and hounded. They had suffered untold hardships as they crossed the plains. But now they were at last in “the right place.”
And yet the winter of 1848 had been extremely harsh. The winter had been so cold that some people’s feet had been badly frozen. A spirit of uneasiness began to descend upon the Saints. Some Church members declared that they would not build their homes in the valley. They wanted to remain in their wagons, for they were sure that Church leadership would herald them on to some better location. They had brought seeds and fruit plants, but they dared not waste them by planting in the barren desert wasteland. Jim Bridger, a well-known explorer of the time, told Brigham Young he would give a thousand dollars for the first bushel of corn raised in the Salt Lake Valley because, he said, it could not be done.
To complicate matters, gold had just been discovered in California. Some Church members envisioned that life would be simpler and more abundant if they were to move on to California in search of riches and a better climate.
Under this cloud of discontent, Brigham Young addressed the members of the Church. He declared:
“[This valley] is the place God has appointed for His people.
“We have been kicked out of the frying-pan into the fire, out of the fire into the middle of the floor, and here we are and here we will stay. God has shown me that this is the spot to locate His people, and here is where they will prosper; He will temper the elements for the good of His Saints; He will rebuke the frost and the sterility of the soil, and the land shall become fruitful. Brethren, go, now, and plant … your … seeds.”
In addition to promising these blessings, President Young declared that the Salt Lake Valley would become known as a highway to the nations. Kings and emperors would visit the land. Best of all, a temple to the Lord would be erected.
These were remarkable promises. Many Church members had faith in Brigham Young’s prophecies, while others remained skeptical and left for what they assumed would be a better life. Yet history has shown that every prophecy Brigham Young declared has come to pass. The valley did blossom and produce. The Saints prospered. The winter of 1848 was a great catalyst for the Lord to teach His people a valuable lesson. They learned—as we all must learn—that the only sure and secure road to protection in this life comes through trusting in and obeying the counsel from the prophets of God.
With frozen feet and a barren wasteland, those early Saints surely needed faith to trust their prophet. Their very survival and lives were at stake. Yet the Lord rewarded their obedience and blessed and prospered those who followed His mouthpiece.

When our only daughter, Lindsay, was young, she and I enjoyed watching movies together. One that we enjoyed and watched together many times was an animated film called Finding Nemo. In the movie, Nemo is caught by a scuba diver and ends up in a fish tank in a dentist’s office. His father, Marlin, is determined to find Nemo. Marlin meets a fish named Dory during his journey. They face obstacle after obstacle as they try to find Nemo. Whether the obstacle is big or small, Dory’s message to Marlin is the same: “Just keep swimming.”
Several years later Lindsay served a mission in Santiago, Chile. Missions are hard. Disappointments are many. Each week at the end of my email I wrote, “Just keep swimming. Love, Dad.”
When Lindsay was expecting her second child, she found out that her unborn baby had a hole in his heart and that he had Down syndrome. As I wrote to her during this very difficult time, I closed my emails, “Just keep swimming.”
Obstacles come into each of our lives, but to get through them and to get where we want to go, we must keep swimming.

Sydell sniffed the air as she skipped down the cobblestone street of Kingstown, a port town on the little West Indian island of St. Vincent. Although it was a beautiful Saturday morning, she held her nose. “Whew! It smells like rotten eggs! La Soufriere, the volcano, must be stirring up sulfur gases,” she muttered.
Sydell hurried around the corner and looked down at the blue water of the fishing bay, where sailboats rocked back and forth on the tide. It must be past lunchtime, she thought, and she wondered if her father and two brothers had returned with a catch of tuna or shark on their own small fishing boat. As she quickly turned her steps toward home, she clutched the new hair ribbon that she had bought to wear to church the next day.
Mother, Father, and her two brothers, Japeth and Seraft, all went to church together in rooms above a mortuary. Father was a counselor to the branch president. Mother was the Relief Society president. Their whole family was responsible for seeing that the rooms were clean and for opening the louvered windows to let the fresh sea breeze flow into the room before meetings started. Although he was only twelve, Seraft led the singing. Japeth prepared and blessed the sacrament with the missionaries. Sydell left the town below and climbed up the trail to her small wooden home perched on the side of the mountain. Halfway up she paused to greet the big black cow tied to a banana tree. “Good evening, Blessing,” she cooed, patting the cow’s silky neck. Blessing only blinked her big brown eyes and went back to munching grasses. Mother called her Blessing because there was no dairy on the island, so the family was blessed to have fresh milk and butter and cream.
Sydell sniffed the air. The aroma of roasting breadfruit filled her nose. “I know what we’re having for lunch,” she called to her mother as she ran up the steep path to the porch.
Mother was sitting on the steps, soaking up the sun while she busily chopped onions and fresh thyme to season her cooking with. She smiled at Sydell, who leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Oh, Mother, I am so hungry! Is the breadfruit ready?”
“Get a stick and see,” answered Mother.
Sydell put her new hair ribbon away, then found a sturdy stick and poked it into the blackened ball baking in the coals. Carefully she carried it to her mother and set it on the ground beside the step. “It’s ready!” she exclaimed, gingerly picking out a bit of the hot meat of the fruit that tasted like bread, then stuffing it into her mouth.
Mother stood and wiped her hands on her apron, “Here come Papa and the boys with a fine catch of fish for supper!”
Papa usually stood tall and walked fast. Sydell thought that he was the handsomest and strongest man she had ever seen. But today his shoulders drooped, and he had a worried look in his eyes. Japeth and Seraft looked very serious too. “What is it, Papa? Is something wrong?”
“No, my little one, something is very right. But we have an important matter to consider that concerns all of us, and we must ask our Heavenly Father to help us.”
Father put his bag of fish down and washed his hands at the basin on the porch. Then the family all knelt together in the little home on the cliff, and Papa talked to Heavenly Father.
“Our Father in Heaven, we are thankful for the missionaries who taught us the true gospel of Jesus Christ. My son, Japeth, is now nineteen and desires to go on a mission, but we have little money with which to help him. We ask Thee to help us find a way for him to serve. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
It was very quiet after the prayer as each family member pondered where such a great amount of money could come from. Fishing brought only enough to keep the family fed and clothed, and there was no other way to earn money.
Sydell and Mother put their arms around Japeth and told him that they were very happy that he wanted to be a missionary. “You will be a great example to the rest of the people here on St. Vincent,” his mother said.
“I will miss you very much,” whispered Sydell as she hugged her brother.
“And I will have to milk the cow every night,” Seraft remembered. “I hear her calling now.”
“The cow! That’s the answer!” shouted Papa. “We will sell the cow. Fresh milk is such a luxury on this island that she will bring a large price.”
“Oh, must we, Papa?” cried Sydell. She thought of Blessing’s big, soft, brown eyes.
“Sometimes we must give up something we love to get something better. I know that Heavenly Father will give us many blessings if we are willing to sacrifice for Him,” said Mother.
“Come,” said Father, as he gathered his family in prayer once again. “Sydell, will you say the prayer this time and ask if we should sell the cow?”
Sydell had a lump in her throat as she told Heavenly Father that they were willing to sell Blessing, if that was what was necessary to send Japeth on a mission. As she looked around the circle after finishing the prayer and saw the smiles of her family through her tears, a warm and wonderful feeling came into her heart, and she knew that selling Blessing would be the beginning of an even greater blessing in their lives.

Rosemary Curtis Neider recalls a time, towards the end of a busy month, when her visiting teaching wasn’t done. She was tempted to just make telephone calls, but was prompted to make the visits instead. Sitting in the home of one less-active sister, Sister Neider was impressed to read to her about the visit of the Savior to the Nephites. “She concentrated longer than I had ever expected,” Sister Neider said, “and she kept saying, ‘Here, now, put a piece of paper in that page so I can find it again later. Oh, put one there, too.’

“What can I say? I felt the Spirit strongly in her home, and my complex, hurried schedule didn’t matter anymore. I felt gratitude and an increase of strength for many days afterward” (in To Rejoice As Women: Talks from the 1994 Women’s Conference, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1995, pages 67–68).

I drive an old car that lacked an interior dome light when I bought it. During the day the missing light didn’t matter, but at night I always felt a little nervous getting into my car in the dark. If I needed to follow written directions, I had to pull over under a streetlight. If I dropped anything, it was difficult to find. Having no interior light was inconvenient, but I got used to it.
When a friend returned my car after borrowing it, I discovered she had installed a new light. She told me the bulb had cost less than a dollar and took about a minute to install. It was wonderful! How had I ever lived without it?
During the next few weeks, I realized that finally having an interior car light was like finally having spiritual light. I had thought my life was okay the way it was, but in reality I was suffering from lack of spiritual light. My fear of entering a dark car reminded me of my fear of dying without having repented. Looking for streetlights so I could read instructions was like having gospel conversations with trusted friends—but I couldn’t always rely on borrowed light. Losing items in the dark was like forgetting gospel principles, which happens easily without the light of the Spirit. I was still able to drive my car and get through life without the light, but I was missing out on blessings of peace, guidance, and understanding. All it took to start bringing back the light was repentance—a process that began when I saw the bishop and started attending church again.

A friend to my mother, who looked after my little sister when my mother went to work, introduced us to Elder Holland and Elder Rambeleson. These two missionaries came to visit us at home. I still remember the first time I attended a sacrament meeting and saw young men like me participating in passing the sacrament. Afterwards, I attended the Primary and saw how much fun the kids were having. I felt a sense of belonging and knew I would never miss out on a Sunday.

Everyone said, “Five, that’s wonderful! Now you can go to school.”
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to school. Mom drove past the school so I could see it. She smiled, but I thought it looked like a scary place. I saw many older boys and girls playing ball. They were all so big!
I was afraid to ride in the school bus too. It groans as it creeps up the hill by our house.
The morning I started school, Mom and Dad seemed happy because I was getting to be such a big girl. When I got dressed, Dad took my picture for our scrapbook.
Mom and I met Kari and her mother at the bus stop on the corner. Kari and I sat together after we got on the bus. We stopped a few times for other children and their mothers.
At school, Mom led me down the hall, past the library and a giant painting, and into my room.
I had already met my teacher, Miss Sorenson. I wondered if she’d remember my name.
“Welcome to kindergarten,” said Miss Sorenson. She smiled and told us about the schoolwork we would do. She even had name tags for us.
Kari and I explored. Records and picture books filled some shelves. There was a piano in the corner near the door.
Miss Sorenson showed us a workbench and a small kitchen. We worked at tables, with a shelf above for our crayons and scissors.
After school I was worried about finding my bus stop. But Miss Sorenson pinned a card on me with my name and bus stop, and a fifth grader helped me. So it was easy.
Now I like school. We listen to stories and learn new songs. Sometimes we cook, and one day we learned about caterpillars. Some days we visit the library or play in the gym. One day we even made gingerbread men.
Now I know my way around. The school is big, but I am too. After all, now I’m five!

In 2018, I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. It came as a shock. I was an active wife, mother, grandmother, and, at the time, missionary at the beautiful Cove Fort Historic Site. I was also an active artist; painting and drawing have always been a source of joy and an expression of faith for me. So, when the disease began to take my energy and eyesight, I felt despair.
But one morning I awoke with the thought, “How dull and uninspiring a composition of music or art would be without contrast—light versus dark, soft versus bold, calm versus storm. So it is with the composition of our lives.”
I was reminded of a talk by Sister Sharon Eubank, First Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, given at the 2020 festival of the Center for Latter-day Saint Arts. She discussed the way art helps us persevere and even thrive. 2 I pondered the idea. What if we were to compose our lives the same way an artist composes a masterpiece? And what might that masterpiece look like with the help of the Savior and our Heavenly Father?

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I sat at the window in the living room and looked out. The snow had piled up almost every day for a week, but now the skies were clear and the air was icy. I could hear Mom, Tara, and Laurie in the kitchen, making treats for the neighbors. Next to me the Christmas tree twinkled, and there were piles of presents stacked beneath it. Usually on Christmas Eve I would feel each package and shake and smell it. I didn’t care about the packages this year.
Christmas had always been fun before. As soon as all the presents were exchanged, I would call Bryan, and we would spend the rest of the morning together until it was time to visit our cousins.
I couldn’t ever remember a time when Bryan and I hadn’t been best friends. We did everything together. We studied together, weeded our gardens together, had a paper route together, joined Cub Scouts together.
Bryan and I were both planning to play football in the pros. He was going to be the quarterback, and I was going to be the end. What a team we’d make! But now I wasn’t sure if we would ever play football together again.
Ever since Bryan had told me about the cancer in his left leg, I had prayed for him. I had even fasted two different Sundays. But the doctors still took his leg off, just above his knee. They said that they thought that they had caught the cancer in time and that it hadn’t spread, but his leg was still gone, and right now he lay in a hospital bed with nothing but a TV and a stack of books and magazines to keep him company.
“Randy,” Mom said, coming into the living room, “you sure look glum for a Christmas Eve.”
“I keep thinking about Bryan,” I mumbled.
“He’ll be fine,” Mom declared. “His mother told me that his whole family is going to celebrate Christmas Eve in his hospital room tonight.”
“But it’s not the same thing. Besides, I wanted to give him something … something super.”
“You already sent a present over.”
I nodded sadly. “A book. But that’s nothing, even if he does have to stay in bed and reading is all that he can do. I wanted to give him something extra special, something that he’d never forget.” I stopped for a moment, then blurted out, “What he really wanted was a football, an official leather football so that we could practice to play in the pros.”
Mother smiled understandingly. “That’s what you’ve both wanted for years, I know.”
“Bryan really did want a football, Mom. But you know how much they cost.”
Mom smiled again and just said, “Yes, I know how much they cost.”
I glanced in toward the tree and stared at the package wrapped in gold foil paper that was nestled under the far side of the tree. Yes, I thought, Mom knows how much footballs cost.
Then she asked gently, “Are you forgetting Bryan’s leg?”
“Bryan won’t always have a stump for a leg,” I told her. “They make legs. Good ones. There was a guy that had his leg cut off because of cancer, and he walked clear across Canada. If he could do something like that, Bryan will be able to play football. And if he had a football now, he’d have something to look forward to, something to work for. We’re still going to play in the pros!”
Mom went back to the kitchen, and I looked out the window again. Christmas would soon be here. If I was going to do anything for Bryan, I would have to do it soon. Then an idea came so quickly that for a moment I could hardly breathe.
Hurrying to my room, I pulled on my sweatshirt, wiggled into my heavy coat, pulled the hood over my head, stomped my feet into my snow boots, grabbed my gloves, and raced back to the living room. I reached for the gold-wrapped package under the tree, called to Mom that I’d be back in a while, then slipped out of the house.
The snow squeaked and crunched under my boots, and my breath puffed out of my mouth and nose in steamy clouds as I sped down the street. Finally I reached the hospital. I pulled open the huge glass doors, walked rapidly down the long hall, and got on the elevator and pushed the third floor button.
Bryan didn’t see me slip into his room, so I whispered, “Hi, Bryan.”
His head turned toward me, and his face and eyes brightened. “Randy!” he cried. “I knew you’d come.”
“How do you feel?” I asked, setting the package on the floor by the bed.
“Oh, OK I guess.”
“You’ll be out of here before you know it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I’m glad you came, Randy.”
“I knew you couldn’t have much of a Christmas here,” I told him. “A hospital is no place for Christmas. And I knew I could never have Christmas without seeing you. I just had to come—and I brought you something.” I bent over, picked up the package, and handed it to Bryan.
“But you already gave me a present. It’s over there, under the tree.”
I glanced at the small silver tree in the corner. My book, wrapped in Santa Claus paper, lay with several other packages. I shook my head. “That’s not my real present,” I told him. “This one is. Open it now, while I’m here.” I pushed the package across the covers to where Bryan could reach it.
He tugged at the gold wrapping paper, pulled the lid off the box, and caught his breath. Then he reached in and lifted out the football. “But, Randy, this was supposed to be yours, wasn’t it?”
“But I want you to have it,” I faltered. “It’s the only thing I could think of that was super special enough for you. It’s one just like we’ve always talked about. Now we’ll play in the pros for sure!”
For a long time Bryan stared at the ball. Then tears came to his eyes.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked hoarsely. “It’s a real one, just like they use in the pros. I just knew you’d have to have one because—” The words caught in my throat. I looked down at the flat place on the bed where Bryan’s left leg should have been.
Bryan was staring at the flat place too. “I can’t take your ball, Randy,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can even play any more.”
“Yes you can—we’ll still play together!” I burst out. “It’s just like I was telling Mom. They make artificial legs, Bryan. Good ones. And the quarterback doesn’t have to run much. You can still play. We’ll still be a team.”
Bryan smiled weakly. “Maybe I ought to be the coach,” he said. “The coach doesn’t have to run at all. All he has to do is yell and blow his whistle, and I can at least do that.”
Bryan stared again at the flat place. I caught my breath, starting to feel sick.
Suddenly Bryan grinned up at me and declared, “It’s a super ball, just what I’ve always wanted. I’m glad that you brought it. Real glad.” Then his smile faded. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need anything. There’s only one thing I really want, and that’s for you to get well and leave here.” There was a terrible, hurting lump in my throat. I tried to swallow it away, but it was stuck. I bit down on my lip. “Every night I pray for you. And every Sunday in Primary we pray for you too. We never forget you, Bryan.”
“I know, and it means a lot to me. But I still want to give you something. I want to give you a super gift too.” He held his new ball tightly. “You know I’ve always wanted a football just like this, and to play in the pros,” he said, rubbing his cheek against the ball. He looked up at me. “You’ll have to play for both of us.” He stopped, then holding the ball out, added, “You’ll need a good ball. The very best. Take this one and play for both of us. It won’t hurt so much if I know I’m helping you out, that you’re playing with my ball.”
“But if I take your ball, that will mean I didn’t give you anything good.”
“Oh, but you did, Randy. You gave me the best gift of all, just by coming.” Bryan smiled. “I waited all day. I didn’t even sleep. I just lay here and looked out the window. I knew you’d come because you’re my friend, the best friend in the world, and having a friend like you is the very best Christmas present of all.”
I could feel a tear trickle down my cheek. I reached out, took the ball from Bryan, and tucked it under my arm. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow too.”
Bryan nodded.
As I trudged back home through the snow, I knew that now I could enjoy Christmas.

But one young man we interviewed is making a real effort to quit. He wants to get his life in order, so he can be in a position to serve a mission and stay active in the Church. He talked about how difficult the past months have been, how hard it is to give up a bad habit. He’s deep in the struggle to shake free.