Gospel Story Finder

My phone rang one afternoon many years ago. The young man on the other end of the line said frantically that he needed to see me. I told him that I was involved with appointments for the remainder of the day and asked if he could come tomorrow. He stated that he had to see me at once. I told him to come and asked my secretary to change the other appointments. In a few minutes he walked in, a boy with a hunted and haunted look. His hair was long, his appearance miserable. I invited him to sit and to talk openly and frankly. I assured him of my interest in his problem and of my desire to help him.

He unraveled a story distressing and miserable. He was in serious trouble. He had broken the law, he had been unclean, he had blighted his life. Now in his extremity there had come a realization of the terrible plight in which he found himself. He needed help beyond his own strength, and he pleaded for it. I asked him if his father knew of his difficulties. He replied by saying that he could not talk with his father, that his father hated him.

I happened to know his father, and I knew that his father did not hate him. He loved him and mourned and grieved for him, but that father had an uncontrolled temper. Whenever he disciplined his children, he lost control and destroyed both them and himself.

As I looked across the desk at that trembling, broken young man, estranged from a father he considered his enemy, I thought of the great words of revealed truth given through the Prophet Joseph Smith. They set forth in essence the governing spirit of the priesthood, and I believe they apply to the government of our homes.

“No power or influence can or ought to be maintained … , only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;
“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).
I believe those marvelous and simple words set forth the spirit in which we should stand as parents. Do they mean that we should not exercise appropriate but sensitive discipline, that we should not wisely reprove? Note these further words:
“Reproving betimes with sharpness, [When? While angry or in a fit of temper? No.] when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; [Does the Holy Ghost attend contentious reprovings? No.] and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be thine enemy;
“That he may know that thy faithfulness is stronger than the cords of death” (D&C 121:43–44).
This, my brethren and sisters who stand at the head of families, is the key to government in the home directed by the Holy Spirit. I commend those words to every parent and do not hesitate to promise that if you will govern your families in the spirit of those words, which have come from the Lord, you will have cause to rejoice, as will those for whom you are responsible.
These inspired words are the spiritual sinews of the gospel and become the fiber of our faith. God help us to cultivate them in every activity in the Church and in every association in our homes.

When I was a young boy, our family was terribly poor. Father had no job because he was going through law school at the University of Utah. He had a wife and three young sons. Grandfather and Grandmother knew that we would have no Christmas if we did not come down to the farm in Millard County. So all of our family took the train from Salt Lake to Leamington, Utah. Where the money came for the tickets, I will never know.

Grandfather and Uncle Esdras met us at the railroad crossing in Leamington with a team of big horses to pull the open sleigh through the deep snow to Oak City. It was so cold that the huge horses had icy chin whiskers, and you could see their breath. I remember how old Jack Frost nipped my nose, and the extreme cold made it hard to breathe. Grandmother had heated some rocks and put them in the bottom of the sleigh to help keep us warm. We were wrapped and tucked into some heavy camp quilts with just our noses sticking out. Accompanied by the tinkle of bells on leather straps on the harnesses of the horses, we musically traveled from Leamington over the 10 miles (16 kilometers) to Oak City, where our beloved grandfather and grandmother lived. So many dear ones were there that we could hardly wait to arrive. When we got there it was warm and wonderful and exciting.

In the corner of the living room was the Christmas tree, a cedar cut from the hillside pasture. It was already partially decorated by Mother Nature with little berries that helped give it a strong smell. Our decorations were popcorn strings made by pushing a needle and thread through popcorn. The strings had to be handled carefully or they would break and strew popcorn all over the floor.

We also had paper chains to put on the tree, made by cutting up old Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogs, with the paper links pasted together with flour paste. The sticky flour paste got all over our hands, faces, and clothes. I wonder why they didn’t put sugar in it! With cream it could also have been served for mush.

I do not remember any presents under the tree. Under the tree were popcorn balls made with strong, homemade molasses. When we bit into the popcorn balls, it felt like they were biting back.

On Christmas Eve we all gathered around the woodstove, enjoying the warm comfort of the fire and the pleasant aroma of the burning cedar wood. One of the uncles gave the opening prayer. We sang carols and hymns. One of our aunts read of the birth of Jesus and of the “good tidings of great joy” (Luke 2:10). “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11). Grandfather and Grandmother then told us how much they loved us.

The next day was Christmas, and we had a glorious dinner. But before we ate, we all got down on our knees for family prayer. I was so hungry. Grandfather prayed for the longest time. You see, he had much to pray for. He prayed for moisture because there was a drought in the land, and the crops had been meager. The fall grain had been planted in the dusty ground. What harvest there was could not be sold for much because of the low prices caused by the Great Depression. The taxes on the farm were delinquent because there was no money to pay them. He also prayed for our large family, his cattle and horses, pigs and chickens, turkeys—he prayed over everything.

During Grandfather’s long prayer, my youngest uncle became restless and gave me an irreverent pinch, hoping that I would shout to make things more exciting.

For dinner we had a huge tom turkey stuffed with delicious dressing. There was no celery in the dressing because we had only the ingredients that could be produced on the farm. But the dressing had plenty of bread, sage, sausage, and onions. There was an abundance of potatoes and gravy and pickles, beets, beans, and corn. Because Grandfather could trade wheat to the miller for flour, there was always fresh baked bread. To stretch the food, we were encouraged to take one bite of bread for every bite of other kinds of food. We had chokecherry jelly and ground-cherry jam. For dessert we had pumpkin and gooseberry pie. It was all delicious.

As I look back on that special Christmas over a lifetime, the most memorable part was that we did not think about presents. There may have been some handmade mittens or a scarf given, but I do not recall any presents. Presents are wonderful, but I found that they are not essential to our happiness. I could not have been happier. There were no presents that could be held and fondled and played with, but there were many wonderful gifts that could not be seen but could be felt.

There was the gift of boundless love. We knew God loved us. We all loved each other. We did not miss the presents because we had all these glorious gifts. It made me feel so wonderful and secure to belong and to be part of all that went on. We wanted nothing else. We did not miss the presents at all. I never remember a happier Christmas in my childhood.

When I was in the sixth grade, my class went to the Marin Headlands (California) State Park for a weeklong field trip. After a long drive on the bus, we unpacked our belongings and settled in to our bunk beds. We started talking excitedly about what activities lay ahead of us over the next week. Slowly, the conversation changed, and somehow the subject of religion was brought up. One person after another briefly stated what faith they belonged to. I didn’t want anyone to know that I didn’t go to church and was different from them. However, they noticed that I wasn’t participating in the discussion.
“What are you?” my friend asked curiously.
“I don’t go to church, so I guess I’m nothing.”
“You can’t be nothing. You have to be something!”
I decided to ask my mom what she was, because I thought that whatever she was, I must be the same. “Mom, everyone in my group at camp goes to church except me. They told me what religions they were and when they asked me what I was, I told them that I was nothing. I’m nothing, right?”
“Yes, I guess that’s right,” my mom said assuredly.
“But they said I have to be something,” I complained.
My mom repeated herself, “If you don’t belong to a particular church or religious group, then you are no religion at all.”
Two years went by, and I didn’t think too much about religion or the religious discussion we had had until my best friend invited me to attend a camp with her during the summer. After getting my parents’ approval, I excitedly told my friend that I could go. There were a lot of fun activities but also classes about principles and stories in the Bible that were brand new to me. I enjoyed learning about them, and I learned how to look up scriptures in my new Bible given to me by my friend. By the end of the week, I was “saved.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but there were other people that were “saved” too.
I asked my parents if it was all right if I went to church with my best friend’s family every Sunday. They agreed. Unfortunately, something came up the next Sunday, and I wasn’t able to go. One week after another went by, and for one reason or another I did not go to church. The good feelings from camp slowly faded away. My freshman year of high school began, but my best friend and I drifted apart. Now I knew there was no chance of going to church with her family.
“Mom, can we go to church?” I asked several times, but I never really got the answer I was looking for. One day was different. Instead of the usual reply, she answered, “Well, I do know of a church we can go to. I know that they teach good things, because I used to go when I was little. I can take you to that church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” That was the first time I learned she ever went to church, even though I knew my grandparents went to church.
I was more than satisfied with this answer. I was finally on my way to becoming something.
My mom, sister, brother, and I were finally going to church! My grandmother helped by locating which church building to attend in the area where we lived. Looking back, I do remember feeling welcomed.
Over the next few Sundays, I was welcomed like a friend that hadn’t been seen for some time. When people noticed that I was new, they smiled and extended their hand to greet me and introduced themselves. I went to Young Women with the girls. I was 15 and belonged to the Mia Maid class. I quickly made friends despite my shyness. Everyone made me feel comfortable. My sister was in the Beehive class. Being four years old, my brother went to Primary. He didn’t like going by himself, so he always made my mom go with him. I think she enjoyed it. She sang children’s songs and relearned stories from when she was younger.
The missionaries came to our house and taught us the lessons. I was delighted when they came over. Even though they were around 20 years old, they knew a lot about the scriptures and the gospel of Jesus Christ. They had a special presence and a warm glow about them. I soon found out that other members of the Church had that glow as well, including my Young Women teacher, who always let me know how happy she was to have me in her class.
I became good friends with a girl named Julia. We decided to be “buddies” at girls camp. Even though I don’t like camping or hiking very much, I really enjoyed the entire experience. There was a different feeling at this camp. Our counselors made a special effort to see that we were having a good time and that everyone was included in all the activities we participated in. During the week, we had devotionals, a nature walk to learn about different plants, a first-aid class, and campfire skits. There was also a service project that everyone in the camp happily participated in. In fact, the service project table was always crowded with volunteers. All through the week there was a sense of organization, cooperation, and friendship.
On Saturday morning, the last day, everyone got together around the campfire, and whoever wanted to stood up and told the others of their testimony of the Church and expressed their gratitude for their family, friends, and what a great and memorable experience they had at camp. Most of them cried while they talked, and I cried along with them. I was surprised to see my sister go up on stage. She said how happy she was to come to this Church and how thankful she was for her family, especially me. That was one of the first times she had ever expressed her love for me as her sister. Once she sat down, I got up and sat next to her. I told her how grateful I was for what she said, and we cried together. We really made a special connection.
We continued going to church and taking the missionary lessons. As the weeks went by, I learned much more about the Church. I wanted to do the right things. I began reading the Bible and the Book of Mormon, praying, eating good food, dressing modestly, and trying to live a Christian life. After trying all these things, I felt good about myself.
My mother, who had not wanted to go to church, continued to participate in the missionary lessons and continued to take us to church every Sunday. We made the decision to be baptized, and my mother, sister, and I became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on June 3, 2000. This was a decision that has changed all of our lives. My brother was too young to be baptized, and my stepfather did not share in our beliefs, but he always supported all of us in our Church-related activities and meetings.
We now have numerous friends that we would not otherwise have if we had not gone to church. We participate in many community service projects and have become happier people. I went on to receive my Young Women in Excellence award and attend community college. After high school, I became active in the single adults ward, where I met a wonderful returned missionary. We were married and have now had our first child.
Through all these experiences in the Church, our family has grown closer, and we are striving to become an eternal family. Seven years after our baptism, both my stepfather and my little brother made the decision to join the Church and were baptized together on January 20, 2007.

It’s early Saturday morning. You have lots to do—go to the mall, hang out with friends, maybe catch up on your homework. This is definitely going to be a long and enjoyable day. Then the phone rings and you remember that this Saturday is your ward’s youth serve-a-thon. You groan and think about getting in one more hour of sleep, right?
Of course not. Getting up is as easy as counting to ten, especially if you’re in the Richmond (Virginia) Ward and today you get to join the missionaries for a day of service. Besides, you’ll be meeting a lot of new people, since much of the service will be for those who aren’t members of the Church.
This Saturday morning, youth from the Richmond Ward are spread out in five different locations around the city. The first stop is a small house in the middle of Richmond. Fourteen-year-old Zack Harton and his friend Will Jones are stationed here, raking leaves, pulling weeds, and having fun.
Zack doesn’t personally know the family his group is helping, but he does know that this family is investigating the Church. Therefore, he knows that he’s also setting an example. “It makes me feel good, because I’m helping someone in need—just as I would help my own brother and sister if they needed help,” Zack says.
His friend Will is also investigating the Church and is glad that Zack invited him to come along today. Will has already caught on to the wonderful feeling that comes from service. “I feel that I have an obligation toward other people,” Will says. “I started coming with Zack to Scouts and never knew it was going to get into this. But I just think it’s wonderful that somebody would care enough to do this. While we were working in the yard, everyone would just help one another. You didn’t even have to ask. I could just feel God around me.”
Will’s enthusiasm for service touches Cary Fleming as she, too, helps to clean up at this stop. “The house looked pretty bad when we got there,” Cary says. “I wondered how we were going to clean all this. But then Will started singing nonstop, and I kept on pulling weeds, and we had a blast.”
Cary found out that what her mom said last night was right. “I did not want to go, but she told me it would strengthen my testimony if I really prayed about going and asked to have a good time. So I knelt down and I prayed, and I’ve had the best time.”
A couple of miles away, Charity Holderness is cleaning bedrooms and bathrooms for a part-member family in the Richmond Ward. For Charity, this is a little out of the ordinary. “When I clean my own room, my mom thinks I’m sick,” she says.
Today she’s feeling something different. “I can’t even explain this feeling. I know that I haven’t done even a fraction of the work some people do. But I feel so much better knowing that I can keep doing small things. Maybe I’ll sweep the kitchen floor when I get home.”
Thirteen-year-old Caity Ingles is also here. She is a nonmember and came with her friend April Lacy. April invited Caity because “I want her to know that I like to serve and help other people.”
The two missionaries at this station like April’s idea about setting an example. Elder Jeffrey Mortensen, from Visalia, California, says, “We’re just the missionaries serving in this area for a short time. But when a ward member can make a connection with a nonmember, that is awesome.”
Building relationships—as well as cutting down some unwanted trees—is in full swing where a third group of youth are stationed. Todd Swenson, 17, is here, and he’s a little tired from pulling up roots and clearing leaves. But his attitude is not the least bit worn. “This is my first time doing anything like this, but I want to do it again. I think it makes the people we are helping feel like they have friends, that someone is looking out for them,” Todd says.
Ben Mullins, 14, agrees. “I hope it makes them feel that the Church likes to help other people. It also gives me a better attitude about serving.”
Besides, according to Heather Swenson, there’s not much else to do on a Saturday. “I can spare one. I’ve got a lot of time left in my life to help other people. I need to use that time.”
Across town at a less-active ward member’s home, Chris Odell knows all about using his time well. “I know this is the best thing I could do today,” Chris says. “When I serve, I feel so close to heaven.”
Lindsay Lansing, 14, nods in agreement and says, “Service shows that you love and respect others.” She helps the sister missionaries here gather leaves and stuff them into a garbage bag. This is not the first time she has joined them to provide service for her neighbors and less-active ward members. “I do this whenever I get the chance.”
Lindsay, Chris, and the rest of the group here finish quickly, but they don’t want to quit yet. So each of them jumps into a leader’s van to find another group that may need some extra hands.
By lunchtime, the last group of Richmond Ward youth are putting finishing touches on a wall at Svetlana Iskiyayev’s Village Shoe Shop. They have spent the morning tidying and painting the back room of the shop.
Svetlana and her husband left careers as a doctor and a lawyer when they came to Virginia from Russia several years ago. Now they are building their dreams here. And Helen Capehart, 16, is happy she can help them. She has invited two nonmember friends to help her today and hopes that they, as well as the Iskiyayevs, will see the light of the gospel through her service.
After all, examples of service are what drew Helen to the gospel herself just a short time ago. She says, “I’m so grateful that the Lord led me to this church, and for the awesome examples my friends here have been to me. My biggest example now is Jesus Christ, and I find so much joy in serving him. I hope I always have this feeling in me.”
Most likely, that feeling will stay with Helen because she has found an important key to sharing the gospel—service.
As youth from the Richmond Ward close their day of service with a testimony meeting, Helen once again captures the essence of this activity. “I don’t think that I’ve ever felt the Spirit so strong in my life as when I am serving the Lord,” Helen says. “Look at all those magazines with beautiful people on the covers. The world says that’s beauty. But when I was working today, I got paint and dirt all over me. And I think that is the Lord’s true definition of beauty.”
She is probably right. What could be more beautiful than a child of God who has found the way to happiness by following the example set by a friend?

I guess I should start out by saying that I’m just a regular, ordinary, ten year old who lives on a very ordinary street—North Maple. I’ve been going to Primary since I was little, and, of course, I’ve been planning on going on a mission as long as I can remember. But practicing being a missionary is something I haven’t done much—that is, until about a month ago. And that’s where my being a regular, ordinary boy is so amazing. I mean, if I can do it, anybody can!
You probably should know that I’m the only member of the Church in my whole school, except for my little sister. A lot of people know we’re Latter-day Saints. It isn’t hard to figure out, since my family doesn’t go to the local sport club’s Sunday soccer games, we have family home evening every Monday night, and we read the Book of Mormon every day. Sometimes my friends tease me about all the things Latter-day Saints can’t do. One time Nick even wanted to know if Church members could drink milk—and he was serious!
Anyway, when my best friend’s family moved, I resigned myself to living out my days never having any members my own age in my school class. There were two other people in my Primary class, but they didn’t go to my school.
About a month ago, the Millers moved into our neighborhood. Right away Mom took over some of her homemade enchiladas, and Dad helped Mr. Miller carry in their furniture. I was pretty excited to find out that they had an eleven-year-old son who likes baseball cards.
Jeff invited me up to his room a few days later. There were still boxes and stuff all over the place. I was busy admiring his coin collection, when I noticed that he had a picture of Jesus Christ on his nightstand. Whoa! My thoughts started spinning. The whole rest of the room was pretty much a mess, but this picture looked like something he had unpacked right away. I knew he wasn’t a Mormon—I’d already found that out—so I asked him about the picture.
Jeff wasn’t embarrassed or anything. He said that his whole family had prayed a lot before they moved to decide whether his dad should take a job in Chicago or come here. They had felt very good about their decision. He said they didn’t know why they were supposed to move here, but they knew that Jesus Christ loved them and they were sure that He would bless them to know why someday.
Well, I started getting pretty tingly all over, and then I did a very scary thing for a regular, ordinary, ten year old. I told him that my whole family loved Jesus Christ, too, and that we prayed every day. I said I knew that someday his family would know why they had moved to this neighborhood.
Well, since then, Jeff and I have become good friends. He came with me to Primary Activity Day two weeks ago and asked a lot of questions about the Church. Some of the answers were easy, and others I had to find out from Mom and Dad. Even Mr. and Mrs. Miller are starting to ask about the Church. We’re having them over to our house next Friday to hear a missionary discussion with the elders. Who knows? Maybe I will live to see another member family live on North Maple Street.

I recall one afternoon where I was functioning on less than three hours of sleep because I had been up the night before with my new baby Mitzi who was sick. I was trying to dig out of a pile of laundry approaching the height of the Tower of Babel, when our two-year-old, Jacob, ran into our kitchen table and split his head wide open, right above his eye. I instantly knew we had to get to the hospital for stitches. I tried to reach Matt who was up on campus, but it was pre-cell phone days, and no one could find him. Since we had gone through roughly this same exercise six months prior to that with Jake, I knew it was going to be a very traumatic experience…for mother and son! Last time it had taken the strength of his father to help the hospital staff keep Jacob still so the doctor could perform the procedure. Now I wondered, how on earth could I pull this off alone? But I had no choice. I left my sick little baby Mitzi with a neighbor, and headed for the hospital with Jake.

As we pulled up, I asked him to fold his arms because we needed to say a prayer. What a touching sight it was for me to then look back in the rearview mirror and see Jake, open wound and all, fold his chubby little arms and shut his eyes super tight. (By the way, just so I don’t get in trouble, I will add that those chubby little arms are now the rock-solid “guns” of an outside linebacker!) In any case, at that moment I pled fervently with the Lord to bless Jake and help both of us get through this experience.

We then went inside, checked in, and were sent to the dreaded waiting room. For two agonizing hours I sat there. As time wore on, so did my worries. I worried about my baby Mitzi being sick and hungry and needing her mother. I worried about my little Jakey having to be strapped in a restraining jacket to control the terror he would feel about getting stitches right around his eye. I wondered if Matt would get any of the messages I’d left with people on campus. I started to envision medical bills we could not afford, and weeks of constant attention to ensure proper healing. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

Holding back my emotions I approached the receptionist to make sure we hadn’t been forgotten. Taped to her computer was a tattered little bookmark. In big, bold letters, it simply read, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” The instant I read this passage from Philippians 4:13,[1] a sense of calm washed over me. I knew that heaven could get me through this, or any other experience, I was asked to face. And I knew this message was a direct answer to the prayer Jake and I said just a few hours earlier. Moments later and much to my relief, Matt walked through the door with baby Mitzi in his arms.

We made it through that day…and we’ve made it through every day since. And while Matt’s arrival came as an answer to prayer, I learned that afternoon that even had I been asked to face that moment, or any other such moment, alone, I could have done that, too. Brothers and sisters, what Paul said to the Philippians is also true of you: you can do all things through Christ Who will strengthen you.

Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminds us how we can have spiritual light: “When I was a boy, I used to ride my bicycle home from basketball practice at night. I would connect a small pear-shaped generator to my bicycle tire. Then as I pedaled, the tire would turn a tiny rotor, which produced … a single, welcome beam of light. … I learned quickly that if I stopped pedaling my bicycle, the light would go out. I also learned that when I was ‘anxiously engaged’ in pedaling, the light would become brighter and the darkness in front of me would be [forced away].”
Elder Hales explains that “spiritual light comes from daily spiritual pedaling. It comes from praying, studying the scriptures, fasting, and serving—from living the gospel and obeying the commandments” (“Out of Darkness into His Marvelous Light,” Ensign, May 2002, 71).

My name is Orlando José Macho Núñez, and I was born in Caracas, Venezuela, on December 16, 1970. From a young age, I have seen the miracles of the Lord and felt His help in every challenge I faced. One of those miracles happened in 1986 when I learned about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A neighbor introduced my mother to the Church, and she was baptized. She promised the Lord that she would also teach me about the Church. I felt the importance of her promise and went with her to a meeting the following Sunday. Two weeks later, I was baptized. My mother was the Lord’s instrument in making this happen.

In your quest to define yourselves, do not get caught up in comparisons with role models or body types that may seem to be macho or chic but in reality are not becoming to you as sons and daughters of our loving Heavenly Father. One 17-year-old girl became so obsessed about her figure that she began to skip meals and ended up with an eating disorder. When it became apparent to her father, he insisted that she eat a substantial meal. This confrontation ultimately brought her to her senses, and she wrote:
“All my life I had done things for everyone else. The grades, the manners, the awards—everything for them, nothing for me. This eating thing, this losing weight had become mine. It represented me and my choices, and now my dad was trying to take that away from me, too!
“As I lay in bed that night crying and feeling fat, I knew I needed help. I knew I was hurting people I loved.
“After staying up all night, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t my dad I hated. I hated ME! I realized that I wasn’t in control. For the first time in my life, I understood that this was my problem. I needed to take control of my life—not let the disease control it.
“Things didn’t change overnight. In fact, it was one long road to recovery. But slowly, with the help of friends and family, I began to heal. Now that I’m at my ideal weight, I have stopped weighing myself altogether. I no longer peruse fashion magazines, either—I may not be ‘in style,’ but I feel just right!”3

Tessa’s heart pounded as Mr. Trager stepped to the front of the room and cleared his throat. “And the lead for our class production of Cinderella is—Cassidy!” Tessa cheered as Cassidy walked up front. Cassidy was Tessa’s best friend, and she was the best singer in the fourth grade.
Tessa waited on the edge of her seat as Mr. Trager read the rest of the parts. Her shoulders slumped when she didn’t get her first choice, or even her second. She was the narrator, which didn’t feel like a real part at all.
“It was the worst day ever, Mom,” she complained as she helped make dinner that night. “I wish I could sing like Cassidy. I wanted to help make this play amazing, but I’m not good at anything that could help the play.”
“There are lots of ways to make it amazing,” Mom said. “And being narrator is one of them. I’m sure you’ll find other ways to help with the play as well.” Tessa didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t so sure.
The worst day ever became the worst month ever as the class spent most afternoons practicing for the play. Tessa liked learning the group dance numbers and songs, but she still didn’t feel as talented as her best friend. Cassidy was busy learning her solos and always standing front and center in the practices.
Then Cassidy started staying after school for extra practices. Because the girls carpooled home together, Tessa stayed after school too. With nothing else to do, she read the script over and over, memorizing the lines until she could recite the entire play word for word. Tessa sat watching the practices in the dark auditorium, mouthing the words along with the actors.
One day, Danielle, who played the Fairy Godmother, was out sick. But they were supposed to practice her parts that afternoon! Mr. Trager waved Tessa toward the stage. “Tessa, do you think you could stand in for Danielle just for today?” He held out a script to her. “Sure,” said Tessa. “But I don’t need the script.”
Practice began, and Tessa knew all of the Fairy Godmother’s lines by heart. When Prince Charming couldn’t remember his part, she was even able to help him with his lines. The practice went great.
“Tessa,” Mr. Trager said when they were done, “how would you like to be the understudy?”
“The understudy?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “You would fill in for the actors if anyone is gone during a practice or performance. You know everyone’s lines, so I think you’d be perfect.”
“I’d love to!” Tessa said. Who knew her talent for memorizing could help the play?
The days until opening night flew by. Tessa was able to stand in for a few other people during practices, and she even helped some other students learn their lines. “Thank you for helping me, Tessa!” Danielle said a week before opening night. “You’re the best!”
On opening night Tessa stood with Cassidy backstage and smoothed her hands over her dress. “There you are!” Mom said, “Let’s get a picture of the talented girls!” Tessa smiled. And although she felt nervous, the smile stayed on her face as she stepped onto the stage to say her lines. Tessa wasn’t the lead like Cassidy, but she had used her talents to help the play. And she knew that was what mattered most.

My own “opal” moment came as I sat in a stark 3x4 cubicle just before Thanksgiving break during my second PhD year. Everyone else had left the building and I worked alone, gathering data from a little investigation of how attentional focus affected my violin students’ bow habits. While they had played a musical scale, I observed what happened when students’ attention was directed away from or toward each of two bow technique skills: (1) using a full bow stroke, and (2) using precise bow contact point on the string (i.e. playing in the best-sounding “sweet spot”).
What you see on the screen is a timeline of one student’s scales during the first of several sessions. The bottom row shows which skill I had directed them to attend to. The top two rows show codes indicating what happened to their bow length or their contact point during each bow stroke, while their attention was directed toward and away from each skill. Red is bad. Green is good.
The data solidified in colors of red, yellow, and green codes along timelines. Usually, this is an exciting moment—my favorite of any study—when all the tedious hours of data-gathering coalesce into a result. This time, however, I experienced something different than excitement. I was stunned. Upon seeing the results, I was simultaneously confronted with the possible implications of what emerged on my screen. I heard myself gasping the words, “We don’t stand a chance.”
Notice how well the violinist did on bow length when they were thinking about bow length. Notice how little green there is when they were not thinking about bow length, or how many more red ticks there are on the middle line when they were not thinking about contact point.
I was stunned.
What stunned me weren’t the ramifications for skill learning on a musical instrument, though that was a thing, too. My mind was caught up in farther-reaching implications. My violin students had been doing a fairly simple (so I thought) activity, within the context of a fairly controlled lesson environment, as designed by a pretty great teacher (so I supposed). This wasn’t even close to the most challenging stuff my students played on their instruments, and yet they struggled to maintain fundamental skills. What then of the possibility of having some chance at being a decent person, a “perfect” person, or even just getting better, in the messy mortal day-to-day existence we pass through, among a constant bombardment of uncontrollable factors?
What if I told you that this is not coming from Matthew, nor 3 Nephi? I am quoting from Luke. In Luke, Christ does not say, “Be perfect as your Father is perfect,” nor “complete” either. Luke relates Jesus’ words as, “Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.” [2]
Luke’s account uses the same phraseology as Matthew, but instead of “perfect,” or even “complete,” inserts the word “merciful,” sometimes translated as “compassionate” or “kind.”
When I had my “opal” moment, in my semi-conscious mind, life’s purpose was to always do right, always be good, never offend. I had been spending time with some who were especially scrupulous, in a way that inhibited them and me from extending self-compassion, or made it difficult to start in on tasks because so much weight was riding on doing them right. Sound familiar to some of you? In our minds, the purpose of existence was to be as close to perfect as possible in every moment and mentally flog ourselves when we were not—even though I was aware of President Russell M. Nelson’s enlightening address, “Perfection Pending,” in which he explains, “In Matt. 5:48, the term perfect was translated from the Greek teleios, which means ‘complete.’” [3] Not “without error.” Unhealthy perfectionism had nevertheless perseverated within myself and those around me.
That “opal” moment evening, my assumptions experienced an unexpected assault, so as to incite the wonderfully uncomfortable cognitive dissonance that is learning. “Maybe,” I said to myself, “this mortal existence isn’t about living a perfect, unblemished life. Maybe it’s at least in part about becoming perfectly merciful—to learn to extend one another grace.” After all, that’s what Jesus extends to each of us.

Morning RecessMandy, Mandy, trick or treat. How many treats did Mandy eat? One, two, three, four …
… eight, nine, ten, eleven—out!Ha ha! Mandy’s a klutz. My turn.
… four, five, six—out!Ouch!
Lunch RecessMandy, when I fell, why didn’t you laugh at me?I almost did, but I remembered that Jesus wants me to be kind.
Why should you care what He wants?Because of what He did for me.
What was that?Let’s share desserts and talk about it.

One summer some of the youth in my stake were asked to put on a play commemorating the life of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Many of my friends were involved, and I was excited to watch the performance. About a week before opening night, I received a phone call from one of the directors. She told me that one of the actors would not be able to participate and asked if I could fill in for him. I was surprised, but I accepted.
Because I’d joined the cast so late in the rehearsal schedule, I had less than a week to learn my lines and know what to do during the scenes I was onstage. By our first performance, I felt confident in my role, but I was still unfamiliar with much of the play’s content. One night I decided to watch the rest of the play from backstage. The play was wonderful, and during the scene where Joseph and Hyrum Smith were martyred, the Spirit testified to me that Joseph Smith truly was a prophet. I felt the Spirit stronger than I ever had before.
I can never deny the testimony I gained that night. I know the Lord truly helped cultivate the Spirit in that performance, and I know I had the chance to play a role in the production so that I could gain a testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I will be eternally grateful for Joseph Smith’s faithfulness and for inspired leaders who asked me to participate in this testimony-promoting experience.

To a large majority of the world, we are considered a different kind of people. We live a clean, mellow life in contrast to the partying lifestyle. I had the opportunity to travel to several different colleges throughout the United States on recruiting trips. While this was an extremely fun and exciting experience, it was also a huge eye-opener for me. The girls on the teams I was being recruited by had never even heard of Mormons. On every single trip, I ended up explaining my beliefs. They were shocked by some of the things I told them, but this was a real testimony builder. As I told them what I believe, I felt an even stronger testimony growing inside me.

Unlike my friend who did not heed the direction to bail out, on another occasion one of my other fellow pilots did. He had made a mistake and glanced off the top of a mountain on a low-altitude bombing run. Although his F-4 Phantom II jet was destroyed, this pilot had pulled the yellow handle and bailed out while careening through the air, and he lived. Belief strong enough to apply his knowledge had saved this pilot.

One summer many, many years ago, my mother decided it would be a great project for her children to refinish the dining room chairs. The chairs were painted a dark cherry color, and my mother had discovered that underneath that paint was good, hard maple wood.
I will never forget that experience. We began by applying a nasty solvent called toluene to all the painted surfaces, and then we scraped the paint off. Once the paint was removed, we had to sand the wood with several grades of sandpaper in order to remove the very last bits of paint and to prepare the wood for a new finish. When the sanding was finally done, we applied a finish to highlight the grain and enhance the wood’s natural color. In the final step we sealed the new hardwood finish with two coats of varnish. Those chairs were transformed!
I think about that experience every time I read Alma’s penetrating question to the members of the Church in Zarahemla:
Behold, are ye stripped of pride? I say unto you, if ye are not ye are not prepared to meet God. Behold ye must prepare quickly; for the kingdom of heaven is soon at hand, and such an one hath not eternal life.1
The words “are ye stripped of pride?” evoke in me images and smells from that summer. I think of toluene and scraping and stripping and sanding to get down to bare wood. When I think of the finishing process with a vibrant color and the protecting sealing varnish, I think of the description of the Savior as “the author and finisher of our faith”2 and the words of King Benjamin to his people:
Therefore, I would that ye should be steadfast and immovable, always abounding in good works, that Christ, the Lord God Omnipotent, may seal you his.3

What of marriage responsibility? Are there some who delay marriage for fear of the responsibility? When my wife and I were married, we had the magnificent sum of twenty English pounds between us. Although young, we felt ready for the challenges and responsibilities that we knew lay ahead. What a glorious experience it has been for almost forty years now to shoulder responsibility and struggle together in building a happy home and a wonderful family of ten precious children.

Nine years ago, when Lavinia and Solomone Kaumaitotoya learned that it was time for a new stake president to be called, they fasted and prayed. They called upon the Lord to bless those seeking inspiration to know who the Lord wanted to lead their stake. They prayed that their stake would be blessed.
Almost as a bookend, the Kaumaitotoya’s again fasted and prayed the week before the stake conference when Solomone would be released as stake president, offering prayers of gratitude, and seeking blessings for the new stake president.
Solomone Kaumaitotoya declared, “President Adrian Yee has the authority to lead the stake now, and I sustain him. I’m ready to do whatever the Lord wants me to do.”

Lately, we have heard and offered countless prayers for and in behalf of our armed forces. We beg for their safety, their families, we suffer for those who have lost spouses, daddies, even mommies. We beg for their safe return and a quick resolution to this conflict. I was very touched by a child’s prayer recently that included the frightened children in Iraq who also have lost mommies and daddies and who are terrorized by the bombs, and an invading army whose intentions they do not understand but fear the worst. These are children and parents who have been abused and oppressed by one of the most evil dictators of our time, but who are also in harm’s way, being used as human shields, facing the most fearsome fire power in the planet’s history. This child prayed for them, too.

After her graduation from Stanford Law School in 1952, Sandra Day O'Connor was among the top students in her class. She applied to every firm that had a notice on Stanford's placement bulletin board; no one would give her an interview.

She had an undergraduate friend whose father worked in a prestigious firm in L.A. Interviewing with him, he told her that her resume was impressive but they had never hired a woman lawyer and wasn't sure they would. And he was sure that their clients wouldn't stand for it. He then said, "If you can type well enough, I might be able to get you on as a legal secretary." She told him that was not the kind of work she was trying to find.

Upon hearing that the county attorney in San Mateo who had a woman lawyer on his staff, she wrote him. His reply, "I have hired everyone I'm authorized to hire and I'm not funded for another one, so I just don't have a slot for you," and in addition he said, "I don't have an empty office." Her reply to him was "Well, I really would like very much to work in your office; I'll work for nothing until such time in the future as you get a little money and pay me something." That is how Sandra Day O'Connor began her career and journey to become the first woman justice on the Supreme Court of the United States of America. The year was 1981; the president was Ronald Reagan.[1]