Gospel Story Finder

The story is told of a man who simply would not work. He wanted to be taken care of in every need. To his way of thinking, the Church or the government, or both, owed him a living because he had paid his taxes and his tithing. He had nothing to eat but refused to work to care for himself. Out of desperation and disgust, those who had tried to help him decided that since he would not lift a finger to sustain himself, they might as well just take him to the cemetery and let him pass on. On the way to the cemetery, one man said, “We can’t do this. I have some corn I will give him.”
So they explained this to the man, and he asked, “Have the husks been removed?”
They responded, “No.”
“Well, then,” he said, “drive on.”

The October conference of 1993 was particularly moving to my wife and me. For once, we were able to sit down in our family room and listen without interruption. Both of us were especially struck by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s talk. He related the story of a Sister Lewis, who was struggling with her son’s leukemia.

[One day] as she entered her home, four-year-old Katie ran up to her with love in her eyes and a crumpled sheaf of papers in her hand. Holding the papers out to her mother, she said enthusiastically, “Mommy, do you know what these are?”
Sister Lewis said frankly her first impulse was to deflect Katie’s zeal and say she didn’t feel like playing just then. But she thought of her children . . . and the possible regret of missed opportunities and little lives that pass too swiftly. So she smiled through her sorrow and said, “No, Katie. I don’t know what they are. Please tell me.”
“They are the scriptures,” Katie beamed back, “and do you know what they say?”
Sister Lewis stopped smiling, gazed deeply at this little child, knelt down to her level, and said, “Tell me, Katie. What do the scriptures say?”
“They say, ‘Trust Jesus.’” And then she was gone.
Sister Lewis said that as she stood back up, holding a fistful of her four-year-old’s scribbling, she felt near-tangible arms of peace encircle her weary soul and a divine stillness calm her troubled heart. [Jeffrey R. Holland, “Look to God and Live,” Ensign, November 1993, p. 15]

Other couples are doing the same. Bishop Chan Yue Sang and his wife, Kit Fong, have four children and are deeply grateful for the gospel and the difference it has made in their lives.

Seventeen years ago, Bishop Chan, then a twenty-four-year-old police constable, first heard about the gospel when he attended English classes taught by LDS missionaries.

“The gospel was beautiful to me,” he remembers. “At the time, I didn’t even believe in a God. But when they taught of being with your family forever, I thought I would give up anything in order to have that.”

His life changed a lot after his baptism. Within six months he had received a promotion at work. He also spent time that summer working with the full-time missionaries and teaching the gospel to others. One of the investigators he taught wrote him a letter two years later, asking for a contribution to the chapel they were building in her ward. He sent some money, renewed his acquaintance with her, and married her a year later.

“The biggest reward the gospel has given me is my family,” Bishop Chan says.

One of Bishop Chan’s goals is to share that reward with others. Last year, he invited the missionaries to a monthly police training meeting to give a family-focused presentation. The training included instruction on family education, welfare services, family council meetings, and one-on-one interviews with children. The family home evening program was also introduced. As a result, one of Bishop Chan’s colleagues joined the Church, and others have shown interest.

On at least one occasion, I gave a spiritual thought with one message in mind, and the Spirit conveyed a totally different message to a student who was listening. Here is one such example from an anonymous student:

Thank you so much for your spiritual thoughts. A few weeks ago you shared a scripture that really changed my life, no exaggeration. I had been on a bit of a downward spiral, and to tell you the truth, during the first month of class it kind of irritated me that we would have “spiritual thought time” in a finance class, when the thought would have nothing to do with what we were talking about. The scripture you shared was in [Doctrine and Covenants] where the Lord tells Joseph that he is chosen, but because of transgression he will fall if he isn’t careful. He tells Joseph to repent and that he is still chosen and called again to the work, but if he does not repent, he will lose his gift and his chosen status (see D&C 3:4–11). That scripture hit me hard and started a chain reaction of introspection with my wife into our lives, so that now I feel like I’m back on a spiritual high akin to that on my mission.

This week I found out that my dad has been [struggling with personal issues that would in the end cause him to leave my mother]. . . . [Y]esterday I was able to talk to him and share everything that has happened to me over the last month (starting with your scripture) to help me find my testimony again and get myself back on track. I felt the Spirit so strong, and I know he did, too.

I’m telling you this story because it is very likely that your scripture not only saved me, but it could save my family and my parents’ temple marriage. If my dad could [move beyond his struggles] to making the right decision, it would be nothing short of a miracle—all because of how you have let the Lord work through you. Don’t ever stop the spiritual thoughts, no matter what anyone else says! Thank you!

A couple weeks later, I received this follow-up from this unknown student in the suggestion box:

I just wanted you to know that over the past two weeks my dad got his act together. My parents are going to stay together! His testimony is starting to return, and he is committed now to working hard on it and his marriage. Thank you! I truly believe this is all because of your spiritual thoughts.

While the Hendricks family was reuniting in the Salt Lake Valley, the men of Brigham’s return company were still venturing east on the trail. They had been traveling rapidly and were now exhausted and running low on food. Their horses were growing weaker and starting to give out. In the mornings, some animals needed help getting to their feet.37
Amid these difficulties, Brigham remained unsettled about his meeting with Parley.38 Although he had forgiven his fellow apostle and told him to forget the matter, their disagreement revealed a need for clarification—and possibly changes—in how the Church was currently led and organized.
In Joseph’s day, a First Presidency had presided over the Church. After the prophet’s death, however, the First Presidency had been dissolved, leaving the Twelve to preside in its place. According to revelation, the Twelve Apostles formed a quorum equal in authority to the First Presidency. Yet they also had a sacred duty to serve as a traveling council and take the gospel to the world.39 As a quorum, could they adequately fulfill this mandate while still shouldering the duties of the First Presidency?
Brigham had occasionally considered reorganizing the First Presidency, yet he had never thought the time was right. Since leaving the Salt Lake Valley, questions about the future of Church leadership had loomed over him.40 He pondered the matter quietly on the road to Winter Quarters, and more and more he felt the Spirit urging him to act.
One day, while resting beside a river, he turned to Wilford Woodruff and asked if the Church should call members of the Twelve to form a new First Presidency.
Wilford thought it over. Altering the Quorum of the Twelve—a quorum established by revelation—was a serious matter.
“It would require a revelation to change the order of that quorum,” Wilford observed. “Whatever the Lord inspires you to do in this matter, I am with you.”41

On Christmas Eve 37 years ago, in the light of a full moon, I climbed a small hill in the isolated village of Quiriza, Bolivia. Four young elders and I had spent the day crossing over a mountain pass on a treacherous road. Then we struggled up a riverbed to see if the teachings of the Savior would help a destitute people. What we saw that day was discouraging—undernourished children, adults subsisting on meager crops, some with eyes glazed from seeking refuge with alcohol and drugs. I looked at the tiny, barren village below: a cluster of adobe thatched-roof houses beaten by the harsh environment. The only evidence of life was barking dogs searching for food. There was no electricity, telephone, running water, roads, proper sanitation, nor doctors there. It seemed so hopeless. Yet a solemn prayer confirmed that we should be there. We found a humble people who embraced the restored gospel with determination to live it. They did that under harsh conditions where severe poverty, alcohol, drugs, witchcraft, and immorality were in plentiful supply.

Under the guidance of exceptional missionaries, the people learned to work hard to cultivate the fields. They produced a harvest of nutritious vegetables and raised rabbits for better protein. But the best lessons came from beloved missionaries who taught them of a God who loved them, of a Savior who gave His life that they might succeed. Their physical appearance began to change. The light of truth radiated from their happy faces. As devoted, loving emissaries of the Lord, missionaries patiently taught truth to a willing people. Wives and husbands learned how to live in harmony, teach truth to their children, pray, and sense guidance of the Spirit.

I watched a six-year-old boy who had carefully observed our first baptismal service act out with his younger sister what he had seen. He carefully arranged her hands, raised his tiny arm to the square, mumbled words, gently lowered her into a depression in the sun-baked earth, led her to a rock where he confirmed her, then shook her hand. The youth learned most quickly. They became obedient to the light of truth taught by the missionaries and in time by their own parents. Through their faith and obedience, I have seen how in one generation youth baptized in that village have overcome a seemingly hopeless future. Some have been missionaries, graduated from universities, and been sealed in the temple. Through their diligence and obedience, they have found purpose and success in life despite an early harsh physical and evil-saturated environment. If it can be done in Quiriza, Bolivia, it can be done anywhere.

By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

Earlier this year I attended the funeral of an extraordinary ordinary man—my husband’s uncle Don. One of Uncle Don’s sons shared an experience he had as a small child, shortly after his parents had purchased their first home. Because there were five small children to feed and clothe, there was not enough money to fence the yard. Taking seriously one of his divine roles as the protector of his family, Uncle Don drove a few small wooden stakes into the ground, took some string, and tied the string from stake to stake all around the yard. He then called his children to him. He showed them the stakes and string and explained to them that if they would stay on the inside of that makeshift fence, they would be safe.

One day the visiting teachers watched in disbelief as they approached the house and saw five little children standing obediently at the edge of the string, looking longingly at a ball that had bounced beyond their boundaries and out into the street. One little child ran to get their daddy, who, in response, ran and retrieved the ball.

Later in the funeral, the oldest son tearfully expressed that all he had ever hoped in this life was to be like his beloved father.

When David and I served a mission in São Paulo, Brazil, my Portuguese was limited at best. My testimony sounded something like, “You nice, me happy, gospel true.”

We gave many stake conference talks, and I always had my same trusty, dog-eared Portuguese talk ready to read. Then one Sunday morning, while sitting on the stand at a stake conference and preparing to step to the podium and read that talk, I was suddenly aware of a strong spiritual prompting. It went something like this: “Leave your talk on your seat and speak from the heart.” Oh dear!

I became all trembly and twittery! My focus on the Lord sharpened considerably! I turned my hope, thoughts, and feelings over to Heavenly Father, pointedly pleading for help in the name of His Son. I wobbled to the podium, stared out at the audience, and opened my mouth. My verb endings were surely mangled, and no doubt my pronunciation hurt every ear. As I directly focused and concentrated on the Savior’s love and mercy, I was able to share it. The Spirit used those broken Portuguese sentences to convey truth. Many hugs and tears came from members after the meeting.

The Lord will take our earnest, though ­meager, offering—be it two small fish and a few small barley loaves13 or weak Portuguese or a sincere though awkward attempt to mend a ­relationship—and turn it into a nourishing meal if we come with faith and focus to Him for help.

When enemies of the Church saw this increase in temple activity, they renewed their determination to drive the Mormons away. They obtained a warrant for the arrest of Brigham Young and eight other Apostles. On December 23, government officials went to the temple to arrest Brigham Young. Knowing that they were coming, Brigham knelt and asked for guidance and protection so that he could “live to prove advantageous to the Saints.”
Soon afterward he noticed William Miller in the hall. He proposed a plan to Brother Miller who was about the same height as President Young.
Brother Miller put on President Young’s cloak and left the temple in his carriage. The waiting marshals thought that he was Brigham Young and arrested him. They took him to the Mansion House, where friends and relatives of Brigham went along with the masquerade. Miller was then taken to Carthage and held until someone who knew Brigham told them that they had the I wrong man. In the meantime Brigham Young and the others had gone safely into hiding.

My husband and I joined the Church in 1973. Before we were baptized, our two year old son and only child had died after open heart surgery. We longed to have another child, especially as we gained new understanding from gospel principles.
Our stake patriarch promised, one year later, that the Lord would give me more children if I called upon him in faith and kept myself worthy.
In 1976, I learned that I was pregnant, but four and a half months later, I had a miscarriage.
In the hospital I had read my patriarchal blessing many times. We’d had one child after receiving the blessing. But there it was, from the mouth of the patriarch: The Lord would give us children. I was already thirty-five years old, and after losing two children, I was discouraged.
In 1984, two years after Christian’s death, our beloved daughter was born. I was close to dying giving birth to her.
We rejoice in the knowledge that our two sons are waiting for us in the spirit world, and we rejoice in our daughter who already has said her first prayer. If any more children are intended for us, we will gladly receive them.

My father has taught me what it means to have power in the priesthood. When the vacant house next to ours suddenly burst into flames, I remember my father placing himself between the burning house and ours with our garden hose. I recall that hose looked like it was shooting air rather than water. I was sure that the flames would engulf our home because it seemed to touch the eaves and walls. But my dad stood firm and sprayed the flames away. The fire department soon came and helped my dad. Dad later shared with our family that as the flames rose to their highest point, to the point of nearly igniting our house, he raised his hand to the square and in the name of the Savior and by the power and authority of the priesthood, commanded the flames not to touch our house. Those flames never touched our house, but it charred the banana trees right next to it. Through this experience I have learned joy in the power of the priesthood.

An anonymous Church member wrote about the continuous heartache her brother caused her parents. He got involved in drugs. He resisted all efforts at control and discipline. He was deceitful and defiant. Unlike the prodigal, this errant son did not come home of his own accord. Instead he got caught by the police and was forced to face the consequences of his actions. For two years his parents supported Bill’s treatment program, which brought about his eventual recovery from drugs. In summary, Bill’s sister observed: “I think my parents are extraordinary. They never wavered in their love for Bill, though they disagreed with and even hated what he was doing to himself and to their family life. But they were committed enough to their family to support Bill in any way necessary to get him through the tough times and onto more solid ground. They practiced the deeper, more sensitive, and extensive gospel of Christ by loving one who had gone astray.”20

Mickey Mantle, the great baseball player, once told of a little five-year-old boy who had grown up with a great fear of the barber. His parents tried to cut his hair at home, but that never seemed to work out well. Even if the boy held still, which he seldom did, their haircuts always looked worse than if his hair were left long and shaggy.
One afternoon the boy’s father said that they were going to the barber to get a haircut. The boy replied, “No, I’m not going to get a haircut!”
“Yes, you are,” his father explained, “but don’t worry about it now.”
The father and the boy went to the shopping center and parked the car. They stopped for a few things that they had to buy, and several times the father reminded his son that they were going to stop for a haircut too. Each time the boy answered, “No, we’re not!”
Suddenly they were in front of the barbershop door, and the boy froze in his tracks. He held onto his father’s hand and stared straight ahead. The father looked down at the boy but didn’t say a word. The boy’s face was solemn and serious as he stared through the glass of the shop. Finally he softly said to himself, “I am going to get my hair cut.”
The father opened the door, and together they walked inside. They had to wait a few minutes, and so they sat down on the chairs along the wall. The boy sat on the edge of his chair without saying a word.
Finally one of the barbers called, “Next please.” Then the boy turned and looked at his father, and his father nodded. The boy got up, walked slowly to the barber chair, and climbed up onto the little seat that barbers put across the arms of their big chairs for children. The boy let the barber put the sheet around him as he sat still as a statute.
No one said a word until the haircut was finished. Then the young boy took a deep breath and climbed down from the chair. His father paid for the haircut and the two of them left the shop.
Outside the boy stopped and looked up at his father. “I got my hair cut!” he said proudly.
This father later told Mickey Mantle that the bravest act he had ever seen was when his little boy stood up to something that had terrified him.

During a youth conference in the Uintah Mountains, I convinced my dad to hike with me to the top of a mountain. While waiting for him, I sprawled out on a rock and fell asleep. However, the medication I was taking at the time warned against staying out in the sun for too long, so when I awoke, I had a pounding headache.
My dad and I headed out, but I knew there was a problem. With every step I took, my head pounded, and I began to feel lightheaded and dizzy. I got slower and slower and fell farther behind my dad. All I could think about was the pain I was in, and how I wasn’t going to be able to finish.
My dad guided me to a rock, where we sat down. When I explained what was wrong and that I wanted to turn around, he offered comfort. He said, “I would do anything to take the pain away from you. I wish I could feel it for you, just so you wouldn’t have to feel an ounce of it.” He reminded me of my desire to hike the mountain and offered to go slower so that we could finish.
Once again we began. This time I was in the front so I could take it at my own pace. Although the headache was still painful, I was no longer sick to my stomach and dizzy, and we proceeded to work our way up the rocks.
My dad had just given me an example of true love and of what Christ has done for all of us. Christ took our sins upon Himself in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross so that we, through repentance, might not have to suffer and so that we may return to our Heavenly Father forever and be with our families. I’ve had many lessons on the Savior’s love, but until that moment I hadn’t ever truly made that connection. I not only realized how much my dad loved me but also how much my Savior and Heavenly Father must love me.

The snows stayed late in the highlands that spring and gave Jamie great cause to worry. Fiona, his very own ewe, would probably need help with the birthing of her first lamb. What would happen if she stayed too long in the highlands and became trapped by the sudden fury of a late storm? She and her lamb might die.
“Grandfather,” Jamie began over breakfast, “I’ll carry feed to the sheep today. There’s time before school this morning.”
Grandfather poured milk onto his porridge. “We’ll not be carrying feed up the hill any more this spring,” he said. “There’s work to do below—the fields must be readied for sowing.”
“But, Grandfather, the sheep could go hungry, especially …”
“Especially those heavy with lambs,” Grandfather finished. He wiped his gray mustache with a thick cloth. “I know that’s what you’re thinkin’, lad. But they’ve only to scratch through the snow and find spring timothy grass for food now. It’s in their nature to know these things.”
“But Fiona …”
“Jamie, if she gets caught in the hills when her time comes, she’ll take shelter and give birth the way it’s always been done. When you’ve learned more about crofting (farming), you’ll find that it’s hard, hard work. There’s no room for soft feelings for just one sheep.”
Jamie opened his mouth to speak again but stopped at Grandfather’s look. His eyes were the shivery blue of a November sunrise, his face a craggy reminder of Aberdeen’s moors. Jamie could not speak again, not in the face of Grandfather’s wintry look.
Had Grandfather never felt the warmth of the work he was doing? Would he, Jamie, lose the tender feelings he now held for all the living, breathing things on the croft? Would he, one day, become like Grandfather? Once, he wanted to be just like him. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Take up your books now, lad,” Grandfather said. “I’ll take up my plow.”
Jamie hurried through the soft fields that were waiting for the seeds of oats and barley. They were the staple of life for those on this land. Without them Grandfather could not keep his croft. So Jamie knew that the planting must be done on time and that the sheep must look after themselves.
But Fiona … Fiona was different. Jamie knew that too. He paused and looked to the low hills beyond the meadows. This summer they would be covered with the lavender glow of wild heather, but now they were dull with patches of spiny gorse (a shrub) and dirty snow. Fiona was up there somewhere, waiting.
At school, Jamie’s books lay open to the thoughts of Robbie Burns and the deeds of past Highlanders. But his mind stayed with Fiona and with remembrances of past lambing snows. It was during the lambing snows two years ago when he’d first seen her trembling legs take a step towards him and he’d touched her still-damp wool. Her mother had died with milk sickness, so Jamie had bottle-fed Fiona until she could join the other spring lambs dancing in the fields.
But she always remembered him and waited for his visit. Then she cavorted around and around on sturdy legs as they traveled the craggy paths together. And she still hurried over to him when he managed to find chores to take him her way.
The day was as gray as slabs of cold porridge when school ended. Jamie hurried along the pathways, eager to be home. Despite Grandfather’s words, surely he would give Jamie time to carry a basket of feed to Fiona. Surely there would be time for that much.
But the milking had to be done, the hens fed, and the fires tended in the cooking stove. And then it was dark and a cold wind blew. Before they’d finished supper, rain clawed at the windows with sharp, scraping sounds.
Sometime in the night Jamie awoke to a great silence. The storm had moved up to the highlands, and he knew that when he looked in the morning, he would see new scarves of snow tossed over the hills. Fiona was up there, waiting for him to come.
At first light Jamie dressed in his thickest woollies and set out for the feed shed. He filled a basket with grazing supplements and began the long walk to the hills. As he climbed, he burrowed deeper into his mackintosh and hood, glad for the Wellingtons that kept his feet warm and dry.
Soon he saw the sheep lying in the snow in soft, lumpy clutches. Fiona was not among them.
“Fiona,” Jamie called.
The wind carried his voice away from the hills toward Grandfather’s house below, where a light now shone in the kitchen window. Jamie hurried on, his heart cold with what he might find. He called again: “Fiona.”
He stopped where the snow drifted against the stone fence. Should he follow the fence line or climb over it? Every moment counted. Decide quickly, he told himself.
Fiona, in her heaviness, could not climb over the fence, he knew, so she would stay on this side. But which way had she gone? There were no prints in the snow, nothing to show that she’d ever been here. There were only the drifts, as smooth as the icing on the tea cakes in Mrs. MacCrae’s bakeshop window—except for that one small place where the snow mounded in a small, round hump.
“Fiona!” He ran, dropped on his knees, and pawed away the snow until he found her lying still and quiet. Was there breath left in her? There’d not be much air under the snow.
Then he saw and understood. Her small muzzle was tucked into a crack between the stones in the fence. There she’d found air to keep her alive.
She pulled her soft, woolly face away from the fence, and something stirred against her. Jamie saw then that her lamb had only just come, looking as trembly and damp as Fiona had when she’d been born in the lambing snows. Bent beneath the lamb were tender shoots of timothy grass. Air and food. Fiona had known just what to do after all.
Jamie looked up to see Grandfather standing next to him. “You were right, Grandfather. She doesn’t need me any more.”
“But I do,” Grandfather said, “to remind me about the way of crofting that I’d almost forgotten.” His eyes had lost their shivery blueness and were warm and caring.
Grandfather carried Fiona, and Jamie carried her lamb down to the warmth of the house below.

Now 18, Kyle sprang into action at a very early age. It all started when he was in kindergarten and a U.S. jump rope team performed at his school in Bellevue, Washington.

“He came home with his eyes as big as saucers and said, ‘Mom, can we buy a rope?’” says Kyle’s mom, Chandra. He practiced and practiced and made it when he tried out for the team.

After winning his first international title when he was in second grade, Kyle and his team, Hot Dog USA, have gone on to win five grand-national titles, and they have won the world championships three times. Kyle was also named the most valuable player for the United States in his sport.

A young man came to see me recently who had been called by the Lord to fill a mission. He was a fine young man—handsome, strong, sharp—but he said he didn’t want to go on his mission because there were other things that he would rather do. As we visited he told me that one thing he would rather do was drive a dune buggy. We talked about the relative merits of trading eternal life for a dune buggy; and he decided, perhaps, that was not exactly a fair exchange. I suggested to him that if he still wanted to drive a dune buggy after he had filled his mission, the Lord would probably let him do so, since the Lord always grants unto men “according to their desire.” (Alma 29:4.)

Jill twisted her high school ring, round and round her finger, the blue stone glimmering as it caught the fluorescent light. Round again—here’s my graduation date, she thought. Round once more—here’s the good old Morrisview High School crest, the snarling tiger mascot posed to leap sinuously out of the silver. Jill turned the ring again, imagining a shimmering tiger splashing down the carpeted corridor like so much quicksilver. Round and round, the ring toured her finger as Jill wished she could be anywhere but in this silent, carpeted hallway. It’s so quiet, she thought. Cryptlike.
Jill started to feel mildly claustrophobic. Her fingers relentlessly worked at her ring, twisting, pulling, twisting again. She didn’t feel well at all. Wishing for the umpteenth time that she didn’t have to be here, she started to reflect on the events of the last few months.
Lockers clanged dully all around her. Jill hardly noticed the noise or the sound of her friends’ voices as they traded witticisms across the hall. She stared into her locker as she fought back bitter tears. Bright teenage voices echoed and rebounded down the corridors as the students poured out into the crisp fall air. Jill grimaced against the salty taste of her tears as she softly shut her locker door. She quickly turned around and walked down the hall, her booted heels clicking rhythmically on the tiles as she walked out into the cold afternoon air. Leaves crackled as she stepped down the stairs that led from the high school. She paused at the bottom of the steps and pressed her hot, flushed cheek against one of the stone tigers. The surface of the stone was rough and pitted, yet strangely relaxing. A small smile creased her face as she thought of the sentinel tigers, their stony snarls forever guarding the steps to the double-doored entrance. As a child she had been a little bit afraid of their fierce countenances. At 17, she loved the frozen animals. With a sigh she pushed away and started towards her home.
Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. She always ran up against something that reminded her of him. Little things: the restaurant where they first met, the Plaza Theater, the park where they played on the swings like children one sunny Saturday. Happy memories, sad memories. They swirled around Jill’s fevered mind like bits of broken glass—glittering, interesting, but painful.
Derek was the one who had decided that the relationship wasn’t working. He had broken up with Jill.
Broken up, dumped, jilted—words that all amounted to the same thing—heartache, confusion, and terrible anger. These emotions churned inside her, making her feel sick. She was devastated over the breakup.
There had been so much pressure during the time they dated. Pressure from her mother to date one of the “nice Mormon boys” instead of the rough, unreligious athlete who had completely captured her heart. Pressure from her Church teachers to invite Derek to church. (She had asked Derek to church—once. She had brought it up timidly as he drove her home one night. He had laughed. She never mentioned it again.) Pressure from him to ignore the things she had been taught at church. Pressures that had stampeded rampant through her soul, leaving her feeling confused and distraught.
Jill passed quietly through the park. A duck pond lay like a slate gray jewel set in gently rolling hills. The ground was carpeted with leaves. Scenes from her life passed like angry accusations. Jill knew that she was not on the right course. Sure, she went to her church meetings most of the time at first, but she didn’t feel anything there and it became easier to miss. All her member friends had moved, and she hadn’t made new ones because she had tried to make Derek’s world her own. A catching sob struggled to rise from her throat, but she choked it down. With a whirl of emotion Jill turned and ran.
Whirr, click. Whirr, click.
The mechanical clock on the wall made precision noises as it duly recorded the minutes of time. It stared down like a sentinel at Jill. The rust-colored carpet stretched along for what seemed like miles across the corridors. Jill’s heart thumped painfully louder with each tick of the clock.
Except for the pounding of her own muffled heartbeat and the sound of the clock, the halls of the church were silent. The silence began to seem accusing. Miserably, Jill wished that she could be anywhere else. She began to hum a gentle hymn that had always been a childhood favorite. It sounded emptily in the hall but started a tiny ember of warmth within her.
She stared down the hall at the light coming from the crack under the door.
Jill remembered a period of self-loathing. Her insides seemed twisted with hatred. Unfortunately, the poison grew inside of her until it was almost a palpable thing. She grew shrewish. Her friends started to avoid her, and even her mother commented on Jill’s waspish behavior. Jill remembered snapping angrily, “No, nothing is wrong. How could anything be wrong? Derek dumped me, and my friends now treat me like an outcast. And my mother is constantly on my back. How could anything be wrong?”
Jill could see the hurt on her mother’s face. She felt terrible. Terrible and guilty. She quickly turned and ran out of the room.
It was a wretched time. Alone and filled with anger, Jill began lashing out at everyone. Her grades suffered dramatically. She no longer felt capable of putting effort into anything and often stayed home from school, pretending to be sick.
If only …
No! Jill’s mind skirted the sentence as if it were a deadly snake. With a sigh of exasperation, she started to form the sentence in her mind once again. She felt as though the acceptance of this sentence was the key to the riddance of her problems, the plug at the bottom of this whirlpool of hate she had been carrying along with her for so many weeks. She tried to say it aloud.
“If only Derek and I hadn’t …”
The sentence trailed off softly, like falling November leaves. She forcibly finished.
“If only Derek and I hadn’t gone up to the ridge that first time. If I had been a stronger willed person. If I …”
For the first time, Jill allowed herself to cry.
Outside, a cleansing December snow had softly started to blanket the ground.
Jill’s reverie was cut short as the door at the end of the hall opened. Light spilled out onto the carpet. The bishop’s voice boomed cheerfully as he shook the young man’s hand. Martin smiled back. Suddenly, the bishop looked over at Jill, who had been trying to pretend she was part of the furniture.
“Oh, Jill. It’s good of you to wait. I’ll be ready for you in a few minutes if you wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer.”
“Sure, I don’t mind waiting.”
Martin looked happily over to where Jill was hunched. As the bishop walked back into his office, Martin sat down on one of the chairs next to Jill. “So, what are you doing here so late?” he asked affably.
With a small sigh, Jill looked up into Martin’s face. It was a pleasant, open face. For the first time in a long while, Jill found a smile hovering right beneath her skin. With a surprised inward shrug she released it.
“The bishop called me in for my six-month interview. It’s a bit overdue, but I suppose it’s better late than never.” Inwardly, Jill knew that she would never have found the courage to ask to speak to the bishop. She was grateful for the convenience of this interview. She had been praying for courage to confess to the bishop, and then suddenly there was this interview.
Martin looked down at the upholstery on the chair arm as he spoke, “You know, we’ve known each other since we were four and you clouted me on the back of the head with a shovel in the sandbox. Do you remember?”
“Yes, you sat on my sand castle just as Prince Charming was about to ride up and save Sleeping Beauty.” With a pang of nostalgia, Jill remembered how she and Martin were almost inseparable before their freshman year in high school. During that year, they both made new friends, and they, well, drifted apart. She couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken.
Martin started the conversation. “I noticed that you’ve been away from church for a while …” The sentence trailed off uncertainly.
“I know.”
“Well,” Martin hesitated, feeling somewhat foolish. “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re back.” With this proclamation finished, he blushed to the roots of his sandy blond hair.
Jill felt stunned at this. Through all her inactivity she had never realized that she was being missed. “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling dangerously close to tears.
“Ummm, hey, I think the bishop’s ready for you now.” Indeed, his office door was open and he was beckoning Jill with his hand.
“Oh, yeah.”
“If you want me to wait I can give you a ride home,” Martin said.
Jill stood up, gathering her things together. One memory flashed swiftly across her mind. It was the hot summer of her tenth year. She had been bike racing with Martin up the hill to her house. Everything was going fine until her front tire hit a patch of gravel that caused her to skid out of control. Martin brought his bike to a screeching halt and helped Jill untangle herself from her bicycle. Jill remembered she had bumped her nose and skinned both her knees. Martin helped her limp home and then left. As her mother carefully applied Band-Aids to the torn knees, Jill told her that Martin was glad she fell because she had been winning. Her mother tried to explain that she was sure that that wasn’t true, but Jill insisted, pointing out that he had even left her alone. About a half an hour later, Martin showed up at their doorstep. He had brought Jill’s bicycle back and put it in the garage. He asked if Jill could come outside for a minute. Jill remembered walking out with a cool expression of complete disdain. She was completely surprised when Martin presented her with a “victory scoop” of strawberry ice cream. She had been winning, he had explained, so he bought her an ice cream cone with his allowance.
“Well?”
With a jerk, she focused on Martin’s face. “Sure, you can wait for me.”
The interview went along much as one would expect—the same questions that Jill had answered many times before, the similar replies. As the clock ticked away the minutes, Jill could feel herself growing panicky. A chorus of voices cried inside of her head, “No—don’t say anything. Don’t tell him! If you start to say something, there’s no going back. Just smile, utter trivialities, and leave.”
A quiet, clear voice eased through the babble like a hot knife through warm butter. “Tell him. He’ll understand.”
Jill remained in turmoil, all the while smiling and agreeing with what the bishop said. An anxious look at the clock confirmed that the interview was drawing to a close. She’d have to say something now. Now.
Her voice was frozen. Her mouth felt dry. She couldn’t form the words. The bishop’s understanding brown eyes looked deep into her soul. Finally he spoke.
“Is there something else you want to talk about? Something that perhaps I can help you with?” The questions were a gentle prod trying to hook the answer from her paralyzed lips.
The chorus screamed in her head.
No, yes, No, yes, No!
Yes … yes …
Words seemed to jump back to color. Underground springs welled up in the desert, bringing life.
A voice that she hardly recognized as her own answered.
“Yes …”
An hour later, Martin guided Jill across the smooth blanket of snow to his car. Snow, dusted from the windshield, sprinkled on the planes of her teary cheeks as the full moon shone gentle assurance.
She felt light, as if something heavy had been lifted off her. It was the first step, a step she had dreaded, but one that she had to take. She would be willing to face the remaining challenges and difficulties until the price was paid.
Through her tears, Jill saw a world that promised spring and new life.