Gospel Story Finder

I was blessed with a strong testimony of and love for the gospel at a young age, but I don’t recall one defining moment when I knew serving a mission was right. I just always knew I would go. I set a goal early to live in a way that would qualify me to serve a mission.
When I began preparing my mission application, I fasted, prayed, and attended the temple. As I worked with my bishop, I continued to feel the peace I had felt throughout my life about serving a mission.
The process was difficult at times: life seemed to suddenly get more expensive, and school and work became more demanding. I was at college away from my family, and it seemed as though all my friends were getting married. It was scary to realize the people I cared about were going to continue changing while I was gone.
Because I didn’t have any singular spiritual event that confirmed my decision to serve, it was easy to doubt when things got hard. But the Lord blessed me after I received my call to the Chile Santiago East Mission to develop a love for the people in my mission, even before I left. I now have a lifetime of experiences that have borne testimony that a mission was a good choice for me.
Madeleine Bailey

A freshman in college! I could hardly believe the excitement I felt at being on my own, of being free to make my own choices and be my own person. I quickly found out there was much more to university life than just going to school. I became immersed in the fun activities of college life, and many, many nights I stayed up past the moon.
Saturday nights in particular were a problem because everyone knew there were no classes the next day. My previous 100 percent attendance at church became a thing of the past. I logged so little sleep before my 9:00 A.M. Sunday meeting that crawling out of bed seemed physically impossible. On mornings when I was able to drag my limp body to the church doors—late, of course—even the hard, wooden benches seemed to invite me to stretch out and sleep.
Needless to say, I wasn’t getting much out of the meetings. Finally one Sunday I realized I hadn’t been to church for two weeks in a row. My conscience bothered me. Maybe that’s why I began reading in the Old Testament. If I couldn’t get to my formal meetings, maybe I could at least learn something on my own.
Then I noticed a scripture I had highlighted during some previous reading. The words seemed to almost grab me and shake me.
“I have taught thee in the way of wisdom; I have led thee in right paths. … Take fast hold of instructions; … for she is thy life. Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men” (Prov. 4:11, 13–14).
It was as if my Heavenly Father were saying, “You should know better!” All of my life, loving parents, teachers, and leaders had taught me “the way of wisdom.” I had been led “in right paths.” I ought to have had enough understanding to know how to do what is right, to remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.
For the first time since I’d been at school, I realized the awesome responsibility I held for my own spirituality. It wasn’t up to my parents or other adults to keep me from the “path of the wicked.” I had to do it myself.
I guess I’m still something of a night owl. And I probably could do better at making sure I’m 100 percent prepared for the Sabbath. But since the day I read that scripture, I’ve learned that I’d better get some sleep on Saturday night if I want to be sharp on Sunday. It has become a priority in my life.

A few days before last Christmas a terrible tragedy occurred at one of the large coal mines in central Utah. Twenty-seven miners lost their lives when fire engulfed the long underground slopes and shafts. Many of these were young men with young wives and young children. The hearts of thousands over the world were touched by the suffering of loved ones left behind.
I met many of these. I spoke with them. I joined with them in a memorial service. There were tears, with much of weeping. There was an overwhelming feeling of loneliness as widows, with children to feed and clothe and educate, looked into the bleakness of the future. Our tears flowed with theirs. But shining through all of this was a faith transcendent that, as surely as there had been mortal death, there will be immortal life; and as certainly as there had been separation, there will be reunion. This is the faith which comes of Christ, who brought to all the promise of immortality.

It’s obvious I’m not going to get to sleep anytime soon, so I go outside on the deck where I find Grandpa looking through his telescope. I know he’ll make me look at some planet, so I go into the kitchen to get my yogurt. One problem. Someone has already eaten it.
“Honey, look,” Grandma says, holding up my jeans that are miraculously clean again.
“Yeah, great,” I say.
“You don’t seem happy about it.”
“Someone ate my yogurt.”
“Oh, we’ll get you some more.”
“And it’s so noisy here. All the kids are running around until late. Why do you let them?”
Grandma sits down and motions for me to do the same. “Honey, it’s summer and you kids all have so many rules all the time. This is a time to relax; to get to know each other. All you cousins don’t see each other that much. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind if we all stayed up playing and enjoying each other’s company.” Grandma stops for a moment, then focuses back on me. “Course, your moms would never allow that, staying up all night.”
Just then, Adam bursts into the kitchen. “Grandpa says come and look. He found Venus!”
Grandma jumps up and follows. I venture back to my room. Erin is already asleep, and I drift off to the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in days. But when I wake up it’s strangely quiet. I look at my watch and see it’s nine o’clock. How could it be this quiet? Erin’s bed is empty. I panic and run down the stairs, putting on my robe as I go. No one’s there.
“Anyone here?” I call out.
“Up here, Marti.” My grandmother calls me by name and I feel a chill. I enter the bedroom to see everyone there. Some have tear-stained eyes. My grandpa is in bed, sleeping peacefully. I think I must be having a strange dream. Then Mom says, “Grandpa died in his sleep.” That’s all she manages to say before she begins to softly cry.
Then my tears come out so fast they take me by surprise. “No!” I hear myself say, and I sink down on the carpet between Deenie and Erin. “I didn’t even look in his telescope.” It’s a strange thing to say, but everyone seems to understand.
For several days everything is like some kind of numb dream.
“He’s here,” Grandma says. “I can feel him nearby, loving all of us.”
“Yeah, he is,” Erin says, “except it will be a long time before I can give him a hug again.”
Four days later, after the funeral is over, we start to laugh and share all our memories. I surprise myself to see how I can cry so hard and laugh so hard in the same day.

Brother Christensen: I have seen the growth of individuals, wards, stakes, and missionaries as students have followed the seminary and institute program. When President Augusto Lim of the Manila Philippines Stake was sustained as stake president, he said he was fearful for the continued existence of his stake, because of the lack of experienced leadership. In talking to him later, he said, “Now I find we have so many who have been through the seminary and institute program who know and can teach the gospel. The seminary and institute program has built leadership in our area.”

For her entire life, my wife, Melinda, has tried with all her heart to be a faithful disciple of Jesus Christ. Yet, beginning in her youth, she felt unworthy of Heavenly Father’s love and blessings because she misunderstood His nature. Fortunately, Melinda continued to keep the commandments in spite of the sadness she felt. A few years ago, she had a series of experiences that helped her better understand God’s nature, including His love for His children and His gratitude for our even-imperfect efforts to do His work.
She explains how this has influenced her: “I now feel sure that the Father’s plan works, that He is personally invested in our success, and that He provides us with the lessons and experiences we need to return to His presence. I see myself and others more as God sees us. I am able to parent, teach, and serve with more love and less fear. I feel peace and confidence rather than anxiety and insecurity. Instead of feeling judged, I feel supported. My faith is more certain. I feel my Father’s love more often and more deeply.”1

Where I live, my family and I are the only members of the Church. I am the only member at my school. I have had to stand up for my belief in Jesus Christ with my friends many times. It is not easy, but I know I need to choose the right. One way I choose the right is by passing the sacrament.
I was nervous to pass the sacrament for the first time. I didn’t want to trip and fall. My friend taught me what to do. He helped me out on my first Sunday. It was also fast Sunday, so I fasted and prayed that I would not make a mistake. I felt happy after I passed the sacrament, and I knew that I did the right thing. I felt at peace.

“I’m making a valentine for Billy,” Jenna told her mother.
First she folded a square of cardboard in half to make a card. She glued some rice into a heart shape on the card.
Next Jenna cut a heart out of some fuzzy material. She glued it on her card too. Then she made hearts out of sandpaper, macaroni, yarn, and silk. She glued them all over her valentine card.
When Jenna was finished, she showed it to her mother. “It looks great!” Mother exclaimed.
“You have to feel it,” Jenna said. “Billy can’t see, so he’ll look at my valentine with his fingers.”
Mother touched the different hearts. “This is one valentine that feels great, too,” she said.
Jenna put on her coat and ran to Billy’s house to give him his valentine surprise.

When I was a little girl, I lived in the small town of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. In town was a school for the deaf. Each school year, deaf children from the surrounding farming communities would live with families in town so that they could go to school. One year, Tom, age ten, and Bernie, age eleven, lived with our family. We didn’t have much money, but we had a lot of love to share.
The boys came with a limited amount of clothing, but it did include a warm jacket and hat for the bitter Wisconsin winters. However, neither boy had mittens or gloves. It just so happened that Mom was famous for her hand-knit mittens. She had made them for years as gifts for family, friends, and neighbors.
Mom asked the boys if they would like to have a pair of her mittens for themselves, and they both smiled and nodded. She had them trace their hands on a piece of paper and choose a color for their mittens. They both chose red. The mittens were completed in a few evenings, and Tom and Bernie wore them to school the following day.
After school, they returned home and excitedly told Mom that some of the other children at the school also needed mittens. They asked her if she would make some for them. Mom agreed and asked the boys to have each child who needed mittens trace his or her hands on a piece of paper and write the color of mittens wanted.
Tom and Bernie came home from school the next day with 137 pieces of paper, all requesting red mittens! Mom looked a little surprised, but she was undaunted. It was the end of September. She figured how long it would take to knit each pair and decided that she could have all 137 pairs finished just before Christmas.
At this point, I became involved in the plan. Yarn did not come ready to use, as it does now. It came in skeins that needed to be wound into balls. I spent many evenings for the next few months with my elbows propped up on several books, a skein of yarn stretched between my wrists, and Mom winding the red yarn into balls.
December 22 was a crisp winter day. Outside a light snow was falling. On this day, Tom and Bernie proudly took 137 pairs of red mittens to school. Mom had made it!
Many years have passed since that day in December. Dad died, my brothers grew up, and Mom eventually moved to Oregon. Through the years, Mom lost track of Tom and Bernie. When she grew old and became ill, she moved back to Wisconsin to live with my brother John. Shortly afterward, she died.
We held a small graveside service for family members in the cemetery, where she would be buried next to Dad. It was December 22—a crisp winter day. At the cemetery, a light snow was falling.
As the short service ended, I noticed two figures coming toward us in the distance. I didn’t recognize the man or the boy, who looked to be about ten. As the two came closer, I noticed that the boy was wearing a pair of red mittens. Then the man smiled, and my brother and I recognized him. It was Bernie!
“I read about your mother’s death in the newspaper yesterday,” he said. “I had to come. She was very important in my life.”
I noted the red mittens on the boy’s hands. “Surely those aren’t the same red mittens that Mom knitted for you?” I asked in surprise.
“They are,” he assured me. “My five sons have all worn them, too. They are a symbol of a loving, caring, and sharing woman whom I have never forgotten. I will treasure these red mittens forever.”

“Andrew, she’s gone,” Emma said.
“Who’s gone?”
“Brittany.”
“Are you sure?” Andrew asked.
“I looked everywhere in the backyard. She’s gone!”
“We’d better tell Mom,” Andrew said, racing Emma to the kitchen door.
“Mom!” they yelled. “The dog’s gone!”
“Oh, no, not again!” Mom said. “We’d better go find her.”
Walking down their country road, Andrew looked. Emma looked.
“Look, Mom, a kitten found us,” Andrew said. “Can we take it home?”
“No, Andrew, we are looking for a dog, not a kitten.”
Next they walked by the lake. Soon two white ducks waddled up behind them.
“Look, Mom, ducks found us,” Emma said. “Can we take them home?”
“Oh, no, Emma. We are looking for a dog, not ducks.”
When they passed Mrs. Eggett’s yard, Emma waved and Andrew called, “Mrs. Eggett, have you seen our dog?”
“No, Andrew, but if you’ll wait a minute I could find you each a cookie,” she answered.
Andrew, Emma, and Mom said thank you. They munched on cinnamon cookies as they kept walking. They looked high and low, over and under, around and behind, but still no Brittany.
“We’re going home,” Mom finally said. “We’re tired and need to rest.”
Andrew was sad. As they walked home, he said, “We found one black kitten, two white ducks, and three cinnamon cookies, but no spotted dog.”
Walking in their front door, Mom suddenly stopped. “Andrew, do you and Emma know what we forgot to do?”
Andrew thought. Emma thought. Finally Andrew said, “We forgot to pray!”
Folding their arms, they bowed their heads and prayed. They asked Heavenly Father to please help them find their lost dog. Then they rested.
After rest time, Andrew and Emma were ready to search again. Just then Dad walked into the house. Emma told him the whole sad story.
Dad listened carefully. Then he said, “I have an idea. Wait here.” He walked back outside. A few minutes later he returned with Brittany!
“Dad, where did you find her?” Andrew asked excitedly.
“She was sleeping behind the neighbor’s house,” Dad said, smiling.
“Next time we need help we’ll pray first,” Andrew said. “It’s better when Heavenly Father helps, too.”

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

“Three days!” Willis exclaimed. “They’ll be here for three whole days? But Alan wants me to go to the lake with him.”
“Willis,” Mom said sternly, “you knew last month that your cousins were coming. I expect you to be here and to show them a good time.”
“All right,” he said unhappily. At first he’d been pretty excited to learn that his cousins were coming. He hadn’t really cared that he would have to give up his room for the older girls to sleep in. But since then he had made other plans, and now he was going to have to give up a weekend at the lake too.
When his Uncle George stopped the car in front of the house, Willis couldn’t believe what he saw—a battered blue trailer hitched to an ancient station wagon. An unbelievable number of bags and boxes were haphazardly tied to the top of the rusted station wagon, and from every window appeared arms, legs, and smiling faces. The sagging vehicle seemed to sigh with relief as his aunt, uncle, and seven cousins tumbled from the car. Instantly the house and yard overflowed with people.
“How tall you’ve grown!” Uncle George cried, slapping Willis on the back.
Everybody’s grown, thought Willis as he looked up at fourteen-year-old Greg.
“Why don’t you show Joe and Greg your new game,” Mom suggested.
“Sure,” Willis said. “Come with me.”
The boys started to play, but Joe, who was the same age as Willis, lost interest after his older brother blew his star destroyer off the game board.
“How about a game of softball?” suggested Greg.
“Then everyone can play.”
“Even the girls?” Willis asked.
“Sure, Willie, it’ll be lots of fun,” said Greg.
“My name is Willis,” he said, thinking that Willie was a dumb name to call a person.
“You’d be surprised at how good Mary is at baseball,” Joe said as they collected a bat and ball and went outside.
There Willis was horrified to see one of his little cousins sitting on the tetherball and swinging around the pole. “Hey, get off there!” yelled Willis. “You’ll break the rope.”
“Oh, she’s not very heavy,” Mary said and swung her little sister off the tetherball and onto the ground. “C’mon Susan, you can be on my team. We’ll knock their socks off.”
The cousins divided into two fairly even teams of older and younger players. In spite of himself, Willis almost enjoyed the softball game. Almost.
“Let’s go, Willie,” yelled Joe. “Hit a homer!”
“Don’t call me Willie!” Willis shouted as the ball was pitched to him. SMACK! He hit a long, towering fly ball that sailed straight toward Greg.
“Run, Jennie,” Greg called to his little sister, who stood on first base. Willis watched in disgust as Greg fumbled his catch on purpose.
“Some baseball game,” he muttered as he jogged behind Jennie around their makeshift diamond.
“Safe,” Mary called as she dropped the ball Greg threw to her just as Jennie touched home plate. “Out!” she yelled, snatching the ball and tagging Willis about two feet from home plate.
“Lunch is ready, children,” Aunt Helen called from the patio.
That’s a relief, Willis thought.
“Great game, Willie.” Joe clapped him on the back.
“Don’t call me Willie,” he said again, shrugging the friendly hand off his shoulder.
After lunch Willis went upstairs to get away from all the people for a while. As he walked down the hall, he heard giggles coming from his room. He was about to stomp away, but he peeked inside, instead. Mary was sitting on his bed, surrounded by his little sisters and several young cousins.
“This poor fairy godmother was having some troubles.” Mary’s voice was woeful. “What would you do if you found Cinderella talking politics with the king instead of dancing with the prince?” Her question was greeted by more giggles. Willis smiled to himself and tiptoed away. When he walked downstairs, Joe saw him.
“Hey, Willie—sorry, Willis—I’ve been looking all over for you. Greg and our dads are unpacking the car. You and I have to sleep in the trailer tonight, but Greg has this terrific army hammock that you just have to see. It has a roof and everything!”
Willis followed the tug on his arm, curious about the hammock.
In the backyard they found Greg unrolling a dark, olive green roll. Uncle George and Dad showed the boys where to attach screw eyes on the corner of the garage and the trunk of the elm tree.
“This is neat!” Willis said with excitement as the double rope supports were tied securely in place. It looked like a small houseboat suspended between the garage and the tree. The sides were made out of green netting, and a sturdy canvas cover served as the roof.
“Try it.” Greg unzipped the netting and showed Willis where to climb in.
“It’s snug and warm, and the canvas roof keeps off the rain,” Joe explained enthusiastically.
“This is great!” Willis said, slipping into the hammock and zipping himself in. He looked out through the netting. “It must be fun sleeping in here.”
“Why don’t you find out,” Greg suggested. “Sleep in it tonight.”
“Really?” Willis couldn’t believe it. “Thanks!”
“It’s time to make ice cream,” Mom called, then came over and peeked through the netting. “Willis, come and help Joe and Greg crank the ice-cream freezer.”
“Crank?” asked Willis as he climbed out of the hammock. “Our ice-cream freezer’s electric.”
“Ours is,” Mom said, leading the way over to the patio. “Aunt Helen and I already have that one going. But we need more than two quarts of ice cream for this crew.”
“We take our hand-crank freezer when we go camping,” Joe said, “because you can’t plug a cord into a tree for electricity.”
Uncle George and Dad each took a turn cranking, but soon the three boys were competing to see who could crank the longest.
“Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine …” All the cousins gathered around the patio to watch the boys.
“Sixty!” yelled Greg, collapsing onto the grass.
“My turn,” said Joe. And he began counting. This time, though, the ice cream was thicker and the crank was harder to turn.
“Fif—teen, six—teen, …” Mary led the count.
“I can’t turn it much more,” Joe said, turning the crank with both hands.
“We need more muscle than that,” chided Aunt Helen with a smile. “It’s not ready yet.”
“Willis,” Joe said, “come and help me turn. We’ll show ‘em!”
Together the two boys turned the crank. “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one … eighty-nine, ninety …”
“Nobody will beat our record,” Willis puffed, out of breath.
“We’re almost there,” Joe gasped triumphantly.
“One hundred!” The cousins yelled together.
That night as Willis snuggled down into Greg’s army hammock, he grinned and thought, That was the best ice cream that I’ve ever eaten. And today has to be the best day of my summer vacation—the day the cousins came!

Youth from the Newcastle Stake and surrounding districts in Australia make the most of their Easter break youth conference. Some 120 young people gathered for last year’s activity, with the theme, “I teach them correct principles and they govern themselves.”

They had dances. They had waterfights. They had fun old movies. They put snags (sausages) on the barby. They had firesides, church meetings, and the best-loved testimony meeting.

But a major part of the conference was spent cleaning up the land around the Richmond Vale Mine Museum, at a historic coal mine. They pulled weeds, cleared train tracks, moved logs, and basically tidied up the area.

To give you an example of how this works, let me share with you an experience of President Heber J. Grant. While he was a member of the Council of the Twelve, when asked by the President of the Church to submit names, he repeatedly submitted that of a very good friend of his for consideration to fill existing vacancies among the Twelve.
The man was never chosen, and President Grant is reported to have said at one time that if he ever became President of the Church, and there was a vacancy to fill, he would call that man, because he was so well qualified.
After he became President and it was necessary to fill a vacancy, he told the Lord that he knew whom he wanted, but that he wanted to select the man that the Lord wanted. The name of Melvin J. Ballard, whom President Grant knew slightly, but not too well, came into his mind and kept recurring to let him know that he was the man who should be called. He was nominated by President Grant and approved by the Twelve. He was ordained and set apart by the First Presidency and Council of the Twelve and at the following general conference was presented to those in attendance for their sustaining vote.

Trusted friends who are older than yourself are always invaluable, especially when you are a teenager. Such friends include parents. I am grateful for the close companionship and association I had with my musician-father, George Henry Durham. It began in early boyhood. Its basis was family life, but extensive activity carried beyond the family. I learned to share much of his specialty, music, by attending concerts and participating in choral groups which he led. For five years of my boyhood, during the period of my father’s advanced study, there were concerts of the Boston Symphony. There were notable times each spring when the Metropolitan Opera of New York played a short season in the Boston Opera House. I shall never forget Verdi’s Aida. Later, in high school, I could join in singing choruses from the “Triumph” scene in the second act with the high school chorus my father led.
The old LDS College was a two-year college and a three-year high school with a business college attached. It occupied the space behind the Hotel Utah and the Church Administration Building where the beautiful plaza and highrise Church Office Building now stand. High school classes began at 8:30. Father wanted a school choir. There was not room for such a class in the regular schedule of classes, so he met the choir daily at 7:45 A.M. in Barratt Hall. The first number I remember rehearsing was Beethoven’s “The Heavens Resound.” There followed selections from Handel’s Messiah, Mendelssohn’s St. Paul, especially “How Lovely Are the Messengers.” We had a wonderful songbook called the Corona Songbook, filled with classical music and songs from various nations. It was a rich experience. It formed a special bond with my father. We had mutual interests to talk about.
The bonds extended into Church activity. Father invited me to join the 31st Ward Choir to sing alto. This was before my voice changed! He kindly let me sit between the sisters who sang alto and the men who sang tenor. This removed any sense of embarrassment and gave me a sense of security. When I shifted from alto to tenor, the transition was simple and easy. As the years went by the ward choir undertook performance of Handel’s Messiah one Sunday evening in December.
Choir practice was every Wednesday night in the chapel at 7:30 P.M. By that time I was also a forward on the ward M Men basketball team, athletic manager, and captain of the team. Choir rehearsals and league games were often scheduled on the same Wednesday night. This produced conflicts. One night father insisted I attend choir practice and miss a game. Usually, in such cases, I was excused from choir practice. As I look back, the bitter taste I felt during that particular rehearsal has long since vanished. The glorious sounds of Handel resonate through my soul while my basketball prowess has somewhat diminished!
Talking things over with Mother was always easy. She was an energetic woman, mother of eight. I was the eldest. We enjoyed an unusual relationship. She was my counselor. I was her confidant. With such a large family it was important to get part-time work as I approached high school. We talked it over. She had a great deal of initiative and management ability. We had engaged in a contest to secure subscriptions for the Deseret News. We didn’t win the prize, but my name received “Honorable Mention,” with mother doing most of the work behind the scenes. When it was time to get a paper route, without my knowledge, she called Ralph Whitney, the circulation manager of the Deseret News, and opened the door. The first thing I knew, my solicitations bore fruit and I received Route 11 in downtown Salt Lake City. I could leave the LDS campus on North Main, go to the Deseret News printing press on Richards Street, get my “sheets” as we called them, then proceed down Main Street to 300 South, back up State Street, crisscrossing 200 and 100 South to deliver papers in the various hotels, cafes, and shops that were subscribers.
Mother and father expected dependability from their sons. This led to an opportunity to get a larger route with more subscribers, Route 69. This extended from 800 South to 1300 South in Salt Lake City between 800 and 900 East. Windsor Street intersected and ran parallel to 900 and 800 East. I had nearly 100 papers. Our earnings were one cent for every paper delivered. Subscriptions were fifteen cents a week, or sixty-five cents a month. We were billed for the number of papers sent to us. I did collecting on Saturday mornings when school was out and always tried to pay the bill to Mr. Knight at the Deseret News office on the southwest corner of Main and South Temple by Monday. The bill amounted to nine cents a week for every paper delivered. With six deliveries a week, that meant six cents on each paper, or the magnificent income of about six dollars a week, provided everybody paid his bill! In collecting I met many older friends, principally the mothers and grandmothers who were home on Saturday mornings. They would respond to my knock at the door, come forward with their fifteen cents for the week’s papers, and we would talk. These friends provided much stability for the social environment of a teenager. I learned early in my teens of the value of communicating, receiving counsel, respecting older people, and responding obediently to my parents. It was a great blessing. It provided me with marvelous lessons at home, such as the injunction in one of my father’s songs: “A friend is a present you give yourself.”
Adult leadership is available to all of us. I shall never forget our ward M Men leader, Leo B. Sharp. He taught our class at Mutual every Tuesday evening at 7:30. He was one of my newspaper customers. He never missed our basketball games and would usually sit on the bench with the coach and the “subs.” We played our games usually at Westminster gym, nearby and easy to rent. It meant much to us on the floor to have Leo watching us and being our friend. He loved us. He knew us. We respected him.
Then there was our bishop, Leo’s older brother, Bishop June B. Sharp, also one of my early subscribers. Bishop Sharp was our priests quorum president. We saw him Sunday mornings. He was our friend. He knew us. We could approach him on any matter. At a ward dance, and they were frequent in those days, you could always see Bishop Sharp dancing with his wife, Ida, bobbing up and down over the floor to a fox-trot or gliding to a waltz. And they would smile and greet us. They were our friends. As I write this, he is still alive and active at age 91, having served as a temple worker for many years and, after serving as bishop, presiding over the South African Mission. Like my parents, his smiling face and figure have always been a visible presence in my consciousness.
Then there was our stake patriarch, Christopher E. Layton, a son of the great pioneer Christopher Layton. He was also the custodian of our ward meetinghouse. He was our friend. He knew us. What a privilege it was to be greeted by him, respond in turn, and shake his hand. Later, when we went to him to receive a patriarchal blessing it was a crowning experience. He was available to us in a different way than Bishop Sharp but stood high in the galaxy of senior friends whose experience, wisdom, and judgment were available.
There were many, many more, too numerous to name. I hope that each of you takes advantage of reaching out, cultivating, and becoming better acquainted with many senior friends in your ward and in your community. They will be complimented and appreciative.
There were many senior friends among the great women of my circles. They were examples during my growing-up years. There was Verna W. Goddard, neighbor, wife of one of our stake presidents. She was the Gleaner leader in the ward (young women 17 to 25). Her home was open to us, and we took advantage of it. By the time we were adults she was a member of the General Presidency of the YWMIA. We were grateful that her leadership was now extending throughout the Church. There was our ward Relief Society presidency: Sister Brinton, the president; her counselors, Sister Michelson and Sister Josephine Matheson. These were beautiful, stately, dignified, cultured women. Although the ward was large, 2,000 members, it was good to get acquainted with such senior friends and feel their influence. Of course, there were always the returned missionaries, a younger group of “seniors” that we looked up to. None of them disappointed us. Although they were several years older when we were 17 or 18, they never approached us as anything less than equals and friends. What a thrill it was to have their friendship, be greeted by them, and sometimes be invited to accompany them in their automobile, or even as one grew a little older, on a date.
Friendship extends horizontally and vertically, up and down the age ladder. Neither dimension should be ignored. One soon finds that some of those “young kids” become very important in one’s own life. It is wonderful to have not ignored them as being “too young” or unimportant when they are 12 or 13 and you have reached the “advanced” age of 16 or 17. The same applies to those who are seven, eight, or nine! And so it goes.
The purpose of this little essay has been to point out the special value of senior friends. I hope that every reader will make it a point to get acquainted with available senior friends, beginning with father, mother, aunts, uncles, and the adult leaders in your ward. It will help stabilize your life. It will add significant dimensions to your social education. It will help open doors of opportunity for your future service. Do not ignore them! Be grateful for the opportunity of developing friendships with senior friends.

Some Relief Society sisters recently prayed together as they prepared to visit for the first time a young widow whose husband died suddenly. They wanted to know what to do and how to work together to help prepare the home for family and friends who would come at the time of the funeral. They needed to know what words of comfort they could speak for the Lord. An answer to their prayer came. When they arrived at the house, each sister moved to complete a task. The house was ready so quickly that some sisters regretted not being able to do more. Words of comfort were spoken which fit perfectly together. They had given the Lord’s service as one, hearts knit together.

The Holy Ghost recently helped Camila make an important decision about her standards. “I wanted to dance in a presentation,” she says, “but the costumes all the girls were wearing were short skirts. I talked with my mother, and she said to pray about it and choose the right. I thought a lot about it and talked with my dance teacher. She said I could wear a longer skirt, and my grandmother made me one. As I danced I felt happy, and I felt the Holy Ghost with me. I was the only girl wearing a longer skirt, but nobody made fun of me. Some of my friends said they were learning from me.”

Ever since I was in Primary, I’ve wanted to be a missionary. But when I was twelve years old, I became discouraged. Being old enough to serve a mission seemed so far away to me. I worried that I would fall into temptation. I thought I might as well live my life however I wanted and not worry about preparing.
But when I talked to my parents about serving a mission, they encouraged me. They told me Satan will always try to tempt me when I’m doing something good for my Heavenly Father. I prayed for guidance, and I felt Heavenly Father affirm that He will be with me every day.
Even though I’ve been through temptations and trials, my faith is strong. I know if I prepare now, through Jesus Christ, I can become a missionary like I’ve always wanted. It might be hard, but I know God will be with me in everything I do.

One family home evening years ago began with our singing, “The day dawn is breaking, the world is awaking” (“The Day Dawn is Breaking,” Hymns, no. 52). When we asked each of our five children to suggest an activity we could do that week, five-year-old Fernando said plaintively, “I want to see what it’s like when the day breaks and the world wakes up.” We tried and tried to explain to him all of the things that happen: how the sun comes up, the morning breezes blow, and the dew glistens on the landscape. But he would have none of it. “I want to see it,” he repeated.
So that Thursday at 4:00 a.m., we got up, piled into our car, and drove to a place with a clear view of the eastern sky. Sunrise that day seemed to come from heaven itself. Circles of yellow color were transformed into a brilliant coral as the great curvature of the sun appeared. It was glorious.
Thirty years later, Fernando’s small son Fernandito was visiting us. “You know what, Grandma?” he said. “Papa took us to see the sunrise.”

After junior college, Kalin was heavily recruited. He made a recruiting trip to BYU. A couple of hours into the tour, Kalin used the phrase made famous by Brigham Young. “This is the right place.” He did have one condition before he would agree to come to BYU. He told the BYU coaches he wanted the chance to talk at firesides, to share his story with young people who might be helped by what he had to say. They smiled and said there would be no problem. He’d have more chances to speak than he would know what to do with.
Kalin’s interest in the choices young people are making with their lives has decided his major. He’s in social work. He intends to finish his degree and work with children. He’s so determined to make this goal that he is concentrating on finishing his degree and perhaps going on for a master’s.
Here’s the advice he has for kids: “Be your own person. Be a leader. The hardest thing is to stand up for yourself and what you believe in. Don’t get caught up in being a follower. If you have to, move on to another set of friends or be a loner for a while.”
As a running back on the BYU football team, Kalin’s athletic talents are evident. He’s hard to stop. But he has a very healthy attitude about sports in general. “Athletics is not the most important thing in the world. But they can be used as a positive tool in your life. For me, it’s been very positive.”
Football has given Kalin the opportunity to go to college. College led Kalin to the gospel. The gospel directed him to BYU, where he met and married his wife, Holly Hamilton, in the temple. The temple can lead them to an eternal family, a concept that is extremely meaningful to an only child who spent a lot of time alone.
If asked, Kalin will tell you about a favorite scripture. It’s the one in Alma about nourishing a seed (see Alma 32:28–43). Kalin says, “The seed was planted when I first started to turn my life around. Then the gospel came, and that’s when the seed was covered by the soil. When I read the scriptures, that’s when I nourished the seed, and it keeps growing as I gain more insight into the gospel. That’s how you progress.”
Sounds like a ball carrier who is on the ball.