Gospel Story Finder

To illustrate this further, I share the true account of a family with five sons who moved from Los Angeles, California, USA, to a small community some years ago. The two oldest sons began playing high school sports and associating with friends, leaders, and coaches—many of whom were faithful members of the Church. These relationships helped lead to the baptism of Fernando, the oldest, and his next younger brother.
Fernando later moved away from home, where he continued his education and played college football. He married his high school sweetheart, Bayley, in the temple. As Fernando and Bayley finished their schooling, they eagerly anticipated the birth of their first child—a baby girl. But during the process of their families helping to move Fernando and Bayley back home, Bayley and her sister were driving on the freeway and were in a tragic accident involving many vehicles. Bayley and her unborn daughter lost their lives.
Yet as deep as was Fernando’s pain, as well as that of Bayley’s parents and siblings, so too was the depth of contrasting peace and comfort that distilled upon them almost immediately. The Holy Ghost in His role as Comforter truly sustained Fernando through this incomprehensible affliction. The Spirit communicated an abiding peace that led Fernando to an attitude of forgiveness and love toward everyone involved in the tragic crash.
Bayley’s parents called her brother who was serving as a missionary at the time of the accident. He described in a letter his feelings upon hearing the difficult news of his beloved sister: “It was amazing to hear your voices so calm in the midst of a tempest. I did not know what to say. … All I could think of is my sister may not be there when I come home. … I was comforted by your infallible testimonies of the Savior and His plan. The same sweet spirit that brings me to the verge of tears as I study and teach filled my heart. I was then comforted and reminded of the things that I know.”

An example of our two emotional extremes occurred two years ago. As part of an outing, a group of Latter-day Saint Boy Scouts entered an abandoned mine in the mountains not far from here. Somehow, young Joshua Dennis was separated from the group and became lost in the mine. Anyone who has ever lost something valuable will remember that terrible feeling. The pain is most extreme when we have lost a loved one. Joshua’s family and friends feared their loss might be permanent.

Search efforts were organized. For days, many good people dropped everything they were doing to search for the one who was lost. Many shared the pain of his loss. Then, miraculously, he was found. Prayers were answered, and the mercy of a loving Heavenly Father was manifest in the happiness of family and friends reunited with the one who was lost. The pain of loss turned to the overwhelming joy of reunion. (See "Hidden Treasure," Ensign, Aug. 1991, pp. 30–35.)

When I was dating, I was seeking an eternal companion who would be a noble father. Since I grew up without that example in my childhood, it was harder for me to know all the characteristics that a noble earthly father should have. I was disappointed that my patriarchal blessing did not give more detailed direction about the person Heavenly Father wanted me to marry. It said only that I should seek someone who could take me to the temple. But even this seemingly simple instruction was challenged. Although I had some positive dating experiences, I often worried that either such a man did not truly exist or I was meant to suffer endless trials of the heart.
Despite my experience-driven anxiety, I continued to pray for a husband who would be a righteous father for my children, who would love them and stay present in their lives. Like my faithful mother, I knew that no matter what happened, I would be able to lean on my Eternal Father for support.
To my surprise and delight, my prayers were answered on Heavenly Father’s perfect timetable. It is healing for me to observe my husband’s loving example of what a father should be. I’m grateful he follows the examples set by prophets and apostles and that he chooses to cherish and love me unselfishly. His example as a loving husband also blesses our children. My heart is full of gratitude for his faithfulness through trials, his example of hard work, his worthiness to exercise the priesthood, and the pure, unwavering love he demonstrates as a young father.

Juan can’t remember how old he was when he started working with his dad in the fields. “The children would start going with me when they were small,” Juan’s dad, Joel, says. “They learned by watching and then doing what they could, depending on their strength and capacity.”

Mayra learned to make tortillas the same way, watching her mom and sisters until she was old enough to pitch in and help.

But plowing, planting, and tortilla making aren’t the only things being passed from one generation to the next. As Mayra’s mother, Carmela, molded and shaped tortillas, she was also giving shape to her daughter’s character. As Brother Ordoñez prepared, planted, or cultivated the ground, he was doing the same for Juan’s heart.

As the family spent time together, the children could see not just how their parents worked but how they lived. And when the opportunity arose, their parents made the gospel a topic of conversation while they worked.

But observing—and even doing—isn’t always enough. In the Book of Mormon’s first family, Laman and Lemuel heard the same things that Nephi heard from their father, and they too even went and did what their father asked. But they were missing something important, something that Juan and Mayra have—a desire to learn.

Juan and Mayra live in Patzicía, a Cakchiquel community a few hours from Guatemala City. Because many of those who buy their tortillas and seek their plowing services don’t speak Spanish, it was important to Juan and Mayra to learn Cakchiquel.

But not everyone feels that way. Cakchiquel isn’t taught in the schools. The language has been passed down from generation to generation for hundreds of years. However, in each succeeding generation there are many who don’t want to learn it or feel they don’t need it.

A desire to know is key in more than just learning a language. Lehi wanted his family to know for themselves that the gospel is true, but not all of his family wanted to know (see 1 Nephi 8:12, 17–18). In addition to hearing his father and doing what he asked, Nephi wanted to know for himself (see 1 Nephi 10:17). Laman and Lemuel, though they had obeyed their father, had done it grudgingly (see 1 Nephi 2:11–12). They weren’t interested in making the effort to find out for themselves, saying, “The Lord maketh no such thing known unto us” (see 1 Nephi 15:8–9).

As their children grew, Brother and Sister Ordoñez often wondered if their children would listen. Would they obey? Would they want to know, like Nephi? Would they pass the gospel on to their children?

It may be too early to tell. But Brother and Sister Ordoñez have reason to hope.

Their older children are starting to pass gospel truths on. And the younger children are recognizing the importance of passing the gospel on too. “It’s hard sometimes to take counsel from your parents,” Juan says. “But I’m grateful for their help.”

“They didn’t just teach me how to cook beans and make tortillas,” Mayra says. “They have taught me the right path—to follow God.”

A dance festival? Sharon Leo had never seen one, and now she was invited to dance in one. An 18-year-old nonmember living in central Utah, Sharon had been around Mormons all of her life. Now her friend Jolynne Taylor of the Orem Utah Sharon West Stake had asked Sharon to join her in a five-stake dance festival to be held in the huge BYU Marriott Center. With reservations, Sharon accepted.
Rehearsals occupied every Saturday morning for months as Sharon found herself practicing square dances, Swiss polkas, disco numbers, karate exercise numbers, Greek line dances, the English quadrille (her specialty), and many other dances with 600 fathers, mothers, young adults, teens, and children. Sharon’s view of Mormonism began to expand as she met new people and made more friends.
Then there were the costumes to make. While Sharon was struggling to put in a zipper and get the length of her costume correct, others were also sewing like crazy—especially where whole families were participating. Cori Dawn Anderson, 16, of the Orem Utah Sharon West Stake, commented, “Being in the dance festival as a whole family was a good experience. The hardest part was making seven costumes in two weeks. But with everyone helping and sewing in their spare time, we got them all finished. It was really fun, and despite all the work, it was worth it.”
During the rush of practices and costume making, Sharon Leo began taking the missionary discussions.
As Sharon grew in gospel knowledge, the dance festival grew in excitement among its participants. Bishops, stake presidents, and high council members responded to the challenge to participate and brought their families. Miriam Abegg, 17, whose father is on the Orem Utah West Central Stake high council said, “The dance festival was fantastic! I could feel that the Lord’s Spirit was with us during our performance. And I enjoyed practicing with my family. It helped me to see my dad with different eyes—enjoying square dancing, whirling and throwing my mom and us kids up in the air. It was a lot of work, but it was fun to work with other people—especially my own family, even though my brother did drop me on the floor one time.”
Suddenly, the day of the performance was upon them. Between the final dress rehearsal and the evening performance, a different kind of event took place. As Sharon’s family, friends, missionaries, teachers, and priesthood administrators watched, she stepped into the waters of baptism. Jolynne’s father performed the baptism, and Jolynne’s mother accompanied the hymns at the piano. Jolynne waited at the top of the baptismal steps to be the first to give Sharon a hug of fellowship. It was a beautiful time of reverence in an exciting day.
The dance performance filled the evening. As the Marriott Center darkened, over 6,000 spectators sat waiting. Suddenly the lights flashed on to the throb of Star Wars music, and the youth and their families began a spectacular show complete with bright lights, colorful costumes, and exciting dances. The dance numbers that had been such stumbling blocks—difficult to learn, difficult to find music for—suddenly were magnificent. The costumes, made mostly from donated materials, looked professional. The organization and technical details, so ragged in rehearsal, suddenly ran smoothly and professionally.
As Joycelynn Demaree, the costume chairman, remarked, “There were so many little miracles and acts of faith that took place during the putting on of the festival. It was a lot of hard work, but to see the whole thing come together was worth every minute of the thousands of hours involved.”

I have always been interested in animals and birds. When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens, I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour in South Africa. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days.
The mission president was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) I thought we were planning to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans. “There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left to go to our isolated cabin. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem.
In the morning they brought us back to the compound. We had no automobile and no way to get a replacement until late in the afternoon. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us. “We are building a new lookout over a water hole about 20 miles [32 kilometers] from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of 17 lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “Crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.
I hope you’ll be wiser in talking to your guides than I was on that occasion. That smart-aleck idea that I knew everything really wasn’t worthy of me, nor is it worthy of you. I’m not very proud of it, and I think I’d be ashamed to tell you about it except that telling you may help you.

Recently I had the privilege of performing the temple sealing ordinances for a wonderful family. It was a beautiful occasion, as such ceremonies almost always are. But if you had known the father of this family several years earlier, you would have understood what a miracle was taking place in the House of the Lord that day. In simple terms, this is what he told me:
“I started to go downhill with my first drink of alcohol. After that, it was easier to take other drugs. In order to take drugs, you must become a good liar. You learn to do whatever it takes to hide your bad acts from others.
“I watched friends die from drugs and suicide. Many others are still in prison. Had it not been for the small flicker of testimony instilled in me by my mother when I was a child, to know that Heavenly Father could still love me, I doubt if I would be telling you this today.
“I have learned that no matter how lost you feel, no matter how many things you have done wrong, there can be forgiveness and peace. The farther one drifts from the Lord, the harder it is to return to Him and His teachings. But once I opened my heart and called out in prayer to Heavenly Father to help me in the name of His Son Jesus Christ, I came to know the power of repentance and the blessings of obedience to God’s commandments.”
I wish that you could have been with us in the temple that day to feel the joy that filled the hearts of his family and me in that sealing room. May we all find the “peace of God, which passeth all understanding” (Philip. 4:7), as did this man and his family as they rejoiced together in the House of the Lord.

I first discovered the garage when I was seven years old and spending the day at my grandparents’ house. I quickly settled into my routine of playing with toys in their living room. Just as I jumped my toy car off of the armrest of the sofa, my grandpa walked through the den wearing a set of blue overalls covered in stains and his favorite “Ford Racing” hat. Opening the sliding door and stepping over the threshold, he looked back to find me staring at him wide-eyed. With a wink, he motioned for me to follow him.
As we walked across the backyard and came to the door of the gray garage, Grandpa reached into his pocket and retrieved his keys. Slowly and methodically, he fingered through the keys with his big, calloused hands that were the result of a lifetime of hard work. Finally, he found the old brass key he was looking for, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.
After climbing over boxes and tiptoeing around engine parts and transmission pieces, we stood in the middle of the garage. Grandpa showed me around, pointing to various parts and explaining what they did in a way that my seven-year-old mind could understand. He pointed out the cars he was fixing and what they needed to run well again. One was a 1940s-era roadster that looked just like one of my toy cars. The other was a 1965 Mustang that was lying in pieces all over the floor. It was amazing how much my grandpa knew and how he could figure out exactly what was wrong with something so complex. His stories of growing up in a family of 12 and buying old cars, repainting them, and selling them to make money made me laugh and the stories of car crashes and real fiery explosions astounded me.
Over the years I’ve put in my share of elbow grease in Grandpa’s garage. I would change oil in the countless cars that rolled into the shop, driven by people asking for my grandpa to work on their vehicles. Grandpa would always smile and treat his loyal customers to at least a half-hour’s worth of conversation. I helped clean the brake drums and apply body filler to the Mustang, which soon became my favorite car in the garage. We spent many hours working in the crowded space. I treasured the time I got to spend with my grandpa working in the garage.
When I was nine, I moved away and no longer got to spend time in the garage with Grandpa. A few years later the distance multiplied when my grandparents were called to serve a mission in Hawaii. However, it was truly a blessing. My grandpa finally got the chance to serve the Lord as a missionary. Growing up in such a large family meant that money was limited, and a full-time mission wasn’t possible for him when he was young. While my grandpa had the desire to serve, a full-time mission involved a great deal of sacrifice. I had always wanted to serve a mission, and seeing my grandparents serve and the blessings that came from their service bolstered my desire. When my grandpa came back, the garage was waiting for him. The sounds of power tools and metal once again reverberated through the walls.
The years have raced by, and I am older now. But working with Grandpa is still special to me. Whenever I come back to visit, it seems like there is always a new project or something that needs to be done. The distance makes me treasure our time together so much more.
I recently visited during the summer, and Grandpa gave me that familiar wink as he motioned for me to follow him. Expecting a new job, I followed willingly. As he lifted the door to the garage, what I saw took my breath away. There stood a beautifully restored 1965 Mustang. The body filler had been covered with a beautiful copper metallic paint, and the brake drums were now masked by flawless new rims. Big white racing stripes flowed up the front of the car from the chrome front bumper to the chrome rear bumper, and the shiny running horse pranced across the front of the grill. He put the key into the ignition, and the huge V-8 engine roared to life. He looked at me and smiled, then he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I quickly said yes, and with that, we backed the car out of the garage and took off down the street.
As I make preparations to serve a mission, I look forward to following in my grandpa’s footsteps once again as I serve the Lord. My grandpa has not only taught me many things about cars, but he has also taught me many things about life. From all the hours we spent in the garage, I’ve learned how to be patient and take pride in my work. Because of his incredible people skills, I’ve learned how to approach and talk to people. And above all, he helped me discover who I truly am. Just like the Mustang, I have been piecing myself together over the last 18 years, and now, with help from Grandpa, I am finally ready for the open road.

The troops gathered early on a spring morning, just as the sun was breaking over the Montana hills. Mostly young men, they came in small clusters at first, a patrol here, another there, marshaling in the city park until their ranks were full. The ribbons and badges on their uniforms caught the fire of the dawning light.
You could tell by looking in their eyes that this was serious business. They came prepared for action, dressed in orange vests and hunting caps, wearing leather gloves. And they came heavily armed.
With trash bags.
For these were Scout troops, joined by Cub Scouts, some Girl Scouts, and a few other service groups. And their battle was an all-out war against litter.
This gathering of 289 in Missoula and others like it throughout the state would form an army of 7, 000. Dispersed in groups of four youth and two leaders per mile, they would clean Highway 93 from the Canadian border to Idaho. They would spruce up parts of Interstate 15. And working west from the North Dakota border, they would tidy significant stretches of Highway 2, Interstates 90 and 94, Highway 87, and other major thoroughfares.
By midday they would collect more than three million pounds of trash, including 2,000 pounds of recyclable glass and thousands of recyclable aluminum cans.
And they’d be home in time for lunch.

I grew up in a small town where most families raised gardens and had farm animals to care for, and our family was no exception. We had cows, horses, chickens, pigs, dogs, cats, and sometimes even sheep and goats, though the goats never worked out very well. They would often get out of their pens and invade our garden. When we tried to catch them, they would climb nimbly up onto the roof of a root cellar behind our house, and it was very difficult to get them back into their pens.
I was interested in all of the animals on our farm, but my favorites were the dogs and horses. One springtime when a mare was about ready to foal, my father said that if the colt were born on my birthday, it would be mine to raise and train and care for. You can imagine how much I hoped that the baby colt would arrive on my birthday!
On the morning of that important day I went with my father to the barn to do the milking. To my absolute delight and wonderment, there in the stall with its mother was a beautiful newborn filly, tottering about on its spindly legs.
My father kept his promise, and the colt became my responsibility. I knew it would be at least two years before she would be big enough to ride, and two years pass slowly when a boy’s head is full of visions about the adventure of having his own horse to ride.
But there was much to do in those two years. I spent many hours just being near the colt so that she would become accustomed to having me around. We were friends from the beginning. We learned to trust each other. She came to understand that I would do nothing to injure her, and she in turn allowed me to pick up her feet and handle her without kicking or biting me.
I named the colt Ginger, and as she grew I occasionally strapped light objects onto her back so that she would get used to the feeling of carrying a load. Finally when she became big and strong enough, I would lead her up to the steps of our granary where I could lean across her back and have her become accustomed to bearing my weight. I believe it was as much an adventure for Ginger as it was for me. There was never any of the contesting and bucking that we so often see portrayed in the “breaking” of a horse to carry a rider. We did everything more or less by mutual consent. If Ginger didn’t seem to understand what I was asking of her or if she became skittish, I would simply slow up the process of training until she accepted what was happening without resisting.
The last step in getting Ginger ready to carry me as a rider was to help her feel comfortable while wearing a saddle and bridle. Then my father led Ginger about while I rode her and taught her the signals for stopping and starting and for turning to the right and to the left. Eventually we accompanied my father who rode Ginger’s mother through the fields adjoining the town.
It was a thrill the day I first took Ginger out alone. We had a great time enjoying new experiences together. No boy could have been prouder than I was, and I don’t suppose any boy ever loved an animal friend more than I loved Ginger.
Later on she even learned to wear a harness and to pull a cultivator through our tomatoes and beans in the summers, in fact, she did anything we ever asked her to do.
Ginger lived for more than twenty years, very old for a horse, and she and I shared many wonderful experiences together. She was a beautiful animal even during her last years spent in a large pasture in the rolling hill country of central California.
As I have grown older, I have remembered the rich experiences enjoyed with Ginger and some of the other animals on our small farm. I have come to appreciate why our Heavenly Father placed animals on the earth to be used by man. He expects us to be kind to them and not to abuse them. They can add much to our lives while we are here on earth.

Beehives from the Vacaville Third Ward, Vacaville California Stake, decided to do something about the environment in their area, and started their own ward recycling program, calling it “BEE-A-RECYCLER.”
The Beehives sent a sign-up sheet around the ward for those who wanted to participate, and twice a month the girls went to those homes, picking up the plastic, newspapers, glass, and aluminum that were set out for them. They then placed thank-you notes on each door. Everyone who participated felt they were making a real contribution toward helping the environment.

On her way to school, Meg passed the snow-encrusted vacant lot next door. Spotting a crumpled foil candy wrapper under a scraggly shrub, she stooped to retrieve it. Cut into strips, the foil could be used as icicles for their Christmas tree. “If we have a tree,” she muttered.
Dad had lost his job at the plant and in searching for work had moved the family to this new town. They had left many things behind in storage, including their Christmas tree decorations. “It’ll be a lean Christmas,” Dad had tried to prepare them one night after Jenny had been tucked into bed. “There’ll be no need for decorations because there won’t be a tree. I’m sorry.”
Meg had cried. No tree! It would be especially sad, she knew, for her sister, Jenny, who was in kindergarten.
Now Meg pulled her coat tighter against the cold. Longingly she eyed the big pines in the yard next to the vacant lot, then hurried on to school.
That afternoon when she got home, Meg hung her coat on a hook behind the kitchen door and removed the foil from her pocket. She’d smoothed the wrinkles from it and was cutting it into thin strips when Ryan, her younger brother, came in.
“Sort of short icicles aren’t they?” he said. “Anyway, what are you going to use for a tree?”
“I’ll think of something,” Meg answered.
“Su-u-re!” said Ryan.
“The yard on the other side of the vacant lot has beautiful pine trees,” Meg said slowly, putting the strips into a box with others she had collected.
“So? Are you figuring on cutting one down?” Ryan stirred the soup Mom had put on to simmer before going to get Jenny from kindergarten. He licked the spoon, washed it, and went into the living room.
Meg followed. She bustled about, arranging the white knit lap robe on the couch to hide the worn places. “Since Dad’s temporary job is at night, sometime after Mom goes to bed, we could slip over there and cut a few limbs from one of those trees. If we tied the branches together, they’d make a cute little Christmas tree for Jenny.”
Ryan stared at her. “That would be stealing!”
“What’s wrong with people sharing with you?”
“Sis, it isn’t sharing when people don’t know you’re taking.”
Meg sighed. “I know. I just want a tree for Jenny so bad. …” She was setting the table when Mom came in with Jenny.
“Look what I made at school today.” Jenny proudly held up an angel for them to admire. It was made from a straight wooden clothespin. Its robe, a scrap of white satin, was draped over pipe-cleaner arms. A string of tiny glass beads gathered the robe at the waist.
“See the halo?” Jenny turned the angel to show gold braid against white yarn hair. “Miss Grant said we could bring ours home for our Christmas trees.”
“It’s beautiful!” Meg looked meaningfully at Ryan over Jenny’s head.
She didn’t mention the tree to Ryan again, but Meg thought of it constantly. One day after an art project, she found some fat, fuzzy red and green yarn scraps in the wastebasket. She took them home. A week before Christmas a friend gave her a package of assorted fruit-flavored candies. She saved those too.
Every day Jenny asked why they didn’t have a tree. “All the other kids have told about their trees at Show and Tell,” she complained one day after supper.
“Don’t worry Jenny,” Meg said comfortingly. “We’ll soon have a tree—I promise.”
Mom shook her head sadly as Jenny went to bed early. “I’m going to bed too. Don’t stay up late, you two.”
Meg gathered the dishes from the table while Ryan took care of the food. “I’m getting Jenny a tree tonight, Ryan. Are you coming?”
“Sis, are you sure you want to do this?”
“Jenny needs a Christmas tree, and I promised her one.”
As soon as she was sure that Mom was asleep, Meg got her coat.
Ryan slipped into his jacket, too, and got his Scout knife. “I’ll cut—you carry the limbs.”
Rain turning to sleet stung Meg’s face as they crept past the vacant lot under the dim glow of the streetlights.
They paused outside the yard next to the vacant lot. When Ryan pushed open the gate, the hinges creaked. Meg’s heart thumped painfully in her throat.
Under a thick pine, Ryan reached for a wet branch. The wind was forcing icy rain down Meg’s neck. She suddenly sobbed, “We can’t do this, Ryan! You’re right. It isn’t sharing if people don’t know you’re taking.”
With Ryan following her, she stumbled up the steps to the house and knocked hard on the door. The door opened, and a man stood in the soft light. “What in the world are you kids doing out on a night like this?”
Trembling, Meg told about how Dad had lost his job and how Jenny needed a Christmas tree.
Ryan stammered a request to cut a couple of pine boughs to make a Christmas tree for his little sister.
“I’d be glad to give you some boughs for your sister,” said the man. He grabbed his coat, got some pruning shears from his garage, and went into the yard. Soon both children’s arms were filled with fragrant pine boughs.
With many thanks, Meg and Ryan left.
At home, they wired the branches together. They made a perfect little tree! Meg found a fat green vase for it and set it on a small table. She put Jenny’s angel on the topmost bough, then she and Ryan used snips of green and red yarn to hang the candies Meg had saved. Ryan draped longer lengths of yarn around the tree in splendid garlands, while Meg hung her foil icicles. “I wish we had something to put around the bottom,” she said.
Grinning, Ryan took the lap robe from the couch and handed it to her with a flourish.
Meg draped it gracefully around the bottom of the vase. She and Ryan sat and admired the tree for a while.
Ryan soon yawned and went to bed, but Meg sat still, thinking how the tree, with its angel on top, was a reminder of the birthday of Jesus. Suddenly she had the most wonderful feeling. It was more than the good feeling of having kept her promise to Jenny—it was a feeling that everything would be all right.

In school on Monday, Marcus slid his math assignment next to hers.
“Let me check my paper,” he said. “I want to make sure I have the same answers you do.”
Sarah handed him her paper, as she always did, but this time she saw Marcus scribbling out his answers and writing hers down. He wasn’t checking—he was cheating! Sarah knew it was wrong to let Marcus cheat, but she didn’t want to make him feel bad. Wasn’t being nice more important than being honest about one little math assignment? After all, she wasn’t cheating—he was.
A familiar, uneasy feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. Remembering how bad she had felt a few days ago, she yanked her paper away.
“What are you doing?” Marcus cried.
“I can’t let you cheat,” Sarah said. Even though Marcus gave her a dirty look, she didn’t give in to the temptation to let him copy her answers. She realized that she had made a right choice because she felt calm and happy inside. “That’s what the Holy Ghost feels like,” Sarah thought. Her quick decision hadn’t been easy, but she had done what was right.
After school, Mom drove Sarah to Megan’s soccer game. On the way there, Sarah told her about the experience she’d had.
“I’m proud of you, Sarah!” Mom said. “See? You’re learning from your mistakes.”
“I guess so,” Sarah agreed. “Now I know what the Holy Ghost feels like, but I’m still confused about something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I wonder why I think about disobeying lately. I never wanted to touch your book until Megan told me to, and I never wanted to let anyone cheat until today. I almost let Marcus copy my paper, even though I knew I shouldn’t.” Mom was quiet, so Sarah continued. “That isn’t all. Sometimes I’m mean to Spencer. Sometimes swear words pop into my head, and I want to say them. I want to be good, but I keep being tempted!”
“That’s what happens when you join a team,” Mom said. “The opposing team gets mad.”
“What?”
“Think of watching soccer,” Mom said. “It’s obvious that you’re loyal to Megan’s team, because you cheer for them. The other team might not like it, but you’re on the sidelines. You can’t help them to win or lose as much as if you jogged onto the field and started playing.”
“What do you mean, Mom?”
“When you were baptized, you chose sides,” Mom said. “You know that baptism shows Heavenly Father your love and commitment to obey. Don’t forget that it proves to Satan whose side you’re on, too. He’ll tempt you to change your mind.”
“I went to church every week before I was baptized,” Sarah protested. “Didn’t my going to Primary upset Satan just as much then?”
Mom pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. “You were on the Lord’s side, but you were cheering from the sidelines. Now you’re in the game. Being righteous will take more effort than it has before. And it will take more courage, and it will definitely take more repentance.”
Sarah thought about that. “I guess watching a game is much easier than playing it.” No wonder the gift of the Holy Ghost hadn’t taken away all of her problems. The Spirit could help her see when Satan was tempting her, but the temptations wouldn’t just disappear. “Is that what ‘opposition in all things’ (2 Ne. 2:11) means?” she wondered. She had read in the Book of Mormon that without agency to choose between good and evil, no one could become more like Heavenly Father.
“Even if it’s harder, it’s more worth it to play than to just watch,” Sarah decided aloud.
“Especially when you win,” Mom added with a smile.
Sarah got out of the car and walked toward the field. She silently promised herself that she would really, really try to follow the Holy Ghost, no matter how much she was tempted. She had chosen the Lord’s side. As long as she did her best to be worthy, the Spirit would bless her with the courage to keep choosing the right.

The great wonder of writing and reading is indicated by the experience of an early-day explorer in the dark continent of Africa. He desired to send a message to a friend many miles away, and it was arranged for a trusted native to be his messenger. The native watched as with his pen the explorer made some marks on a piece of paper, which had no significance to him. Then the explorer gave the native the letter for delivery.
After traversing the many miles of wilderness, the native put the message in the hands of the one for whom it was intended. The native discovered that as soon as the recipient had studied the paper, he immediately knew exactly where the explorer was and what his problems were. He knew all about his health and as much about the needs that prompted him to send the letter as though the explorer had come in person.
The miracle involved in this mysterious communication so impressed the native that he fell down on his face and worshiped the paper.

“Mom, hey, Mom!” Devin’s voice floated in through the open kitchen window as she finished crimping the pie crust. A little breeze followed his voice, ruffling the white curtains and carrying a sharp smell, like rain. Instinctively she glanced toward the mountains, and yes, there were gray clouds gathering.
The screen on the back door banged shut, and she heard hesitating footsteps. “In the kitchen, dear,” she called, wiping her hands on a towel. The clump of boots sounded nearer, and she glanced up to see him framed in the doorway, temporarily blocking out most of the light.
“My goodness,” she said, with just enough tease in her voice, “if those shoulders grow any more you’ll have to go through sideways!” and then saved him the embarrassment of having to reply to such a typically motherly statement by handing him the mixing bowl and spoon. She waited with cocked head and inquiring eyebrows while he sampled the filling.
“ ’Sall right,” he said casually, but she knew from the glint in his eye that it was really good.
“It’s for the Jeffersons,” she explained, “for this afternoon, after the funeral. But I made one for us, too.”
“You’d better take ’em both over,” he said wryly. “They’ve got a regular army of relatives swarming around the house.”
“They have?”
“Yeah. I was over that way just now.” His voice was slightly muffled, coming from behind the refrigerator door. She heard the clink of milk bottles. “On my way back from Jess Willard’s.”
Jess Willard’s. She was alert now but cautious. Don’t say anything, she told herself. Just wait.
“Y’know, Mom, he’s willing to knock off another two hundred on that Chevy.”
Here we go again, she thought. But not this morning. I’m not up to this on a busy Saturday morning.
“That car is really a bargain now.” His words came in a rush, tumbling together in his eagerness to win her over. “Just a little time and effort and it’d be worth twice what he’s asking. I can do the transmission work myself and …”
“Devin!”
There was silence in the kitchen. I don’t want to sound like this, she thought, forcing back the irritation clutching at her stomach. Make it light: joke! she told herself.
“This is the Voice of Doom speaking,” she said, imitating a telephone recording. “You can’t afford Jess Willard’s fancy motorcar. There’s no way you can put together that much money—and your folks can’t give it to you, either.”
He rinsed the glass and slid it into the dish drainer.
“I told him I’d take it.” His voice was so quiet—and so final.
“What?!” There wasn’t time to control the astonishment.
“Bill Whipple was there this morning. He said he was going to buy the car as soon as he could sell his pickup. Oh, Mom, what would Bill Whipple do with a car like that?”
“And how would Devin Edwards pay for a car like that?” she demanded.
“With the fund,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
“Your missionary fund?”
Unreal, went her brain, unreal, unreal. He didn’t really say that—not Devin, not the boy who picked strawberries all summer when he turned 12 and put every penny, minus tithing, into the fund.
“It would just be a loan, Mom. I’d pay it back.”
“Wait a minute.” She fluttered her hands in front of her closed eyes, trying to think, reaching for control. “You’ll be 19 in less than a year. You couldn’t …”
“Who says I have to leave the exact minute I turn 19?” he retorted, a hard, angry edge to his voice.
She could say nothing. The silence stretched as she stood at the wooden chopping block, stunned and still. Gradually her hands swam into focus. She was looking down and felt faint surprise to see flour and little bits of dough clinging to her fingers. Then she became aware of the receding footsteps and the slam of the back door.
“Bobby … Lisa! It’s time to leave!” she called. Then she stood, somewhat nervous, studying her reflection in the glass panes of the ponderous grandfather clock which had always stood in the entryway. Ten forty-five according to the filigree hands: the funeral was to begin at eleven. Bad enough that Bob is out of town, she thought, and now to appear without Devin either! But there had been no sign of him since he had slammed through the back door an hour ago.
“Here I am, Mom.” Lisa’s face appeared suddenly in the glittering glass, and her mother turned to give her a quick hug.
“You look lovely, dear,” she said softly. “Thanks,” replied Lisa, patting her hair into place and smoothing down the full skirt of her new blue dress. “I’ll wait out in front.”
“Bobby … please come now!” she called, putting a little more insistence into her voice. It was going to be all right. She had felt it so strongly at the conclusion of her prayer half an hour earlier. Somehow Devin would see—would get his values straight again. The funeral. She had decided the funeral would do it. Devin would be sitting hunched forward on the bench, and one of the speakers would look him right in the eye and say just the perfect thing. And now Devin might not be there to hear it.
Bobby appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, Mom,” he puffed as he came down toward her, taking the steps two at a time, “couldn’t find my tie. Where’s Devin?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply, trying to keep it even, trying not to let the distress show through. But Bobby sensed it anyway.
“Maybe he’s already gone over to the church,” he suggested.
“In his boots and levis?”
“I guess not. Wanna wait for him?”
“No,” she sighed. “I left him a note.” She plucked two umbrellas from the stand near the clock. “Here, you’d better take this,” she said, offering him one. “It looks like a storm.”
The downpour had eased to a steady drench by the time Devin vaulted over the hedge and made a dash for the back door. When he strode into the kitchen, his wet T-shirt was plastered against his back. He walked over to the fridge and removed the note from the two flat magnets holding it against the door. It read: “10:40 A.M. Dear Devin: We are leaving for the Jepperson funeral, which starts at 11:00. Please change quickly and meet us at the church. We’ll sit at the back and save you a seat. Love, Mom.”
He glanced at the clock in the middle of the stove: 12:30. He crumpled the note and tossed it into the wastebasket. A few quick strides to his room, and he was back in the kitchen again in a dry T-shirt, rifling the fridge. He arrived at the table with an armload of milk, bread, mayonnaise, ham and cheese, and became aware of the two pies sitting in plastic-wrapped silence in the center of the table, waiting to be delivered. His gaze kept returning to them as he ate a quick lunch. When he had finished and cleared away the clutter, he fished the keys to his dad’s truck out of his pocket, picked up a pie in each hand, and headed through the kitchen door into what was now a mere drizzle.
He drove in silence, letting the slip-slap of the windshield wipers keep time with his thoughts, which were so deep he almost missed the Jepperson turnoff. He parked the truck in the side yard and, carefully balancing the pies, made his way up the wooden stairs to the old screen porch, where he expertly flipped open the screen door with the toe of his boot. It was just a few steps to the back kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. Devin nudged it open with his shoulder, stepped into the dimly lit room, and deftly deposited the pies on the counter near the sink. Then, with his hand on the doorknob, he was just in the act of stepping back out when a low, growling voice came from the interior of the darkened house: “Who’s there?!”
Startled, he swallowed hard and called, “Devin Edwards. Just leaving some pies for after the funeral.”
“Devin Edwards, is it?” came the voice. “Come on in here a minute, Devin Edwards.”
He made his way through the gray rooms with the ease of someone who’d been through them a hundred times or more, and as he came through the archway into the front room, a light flickered on. Carl Jepperson was sitting in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders in the big leather chair by the window.
“Why aren’t you at the funeral?” blurted Devin, the surprise evident in his voice.
“Don’t believe in ’em, son,” said Mr. Jepperson slowly, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “I can mourn my father better sitting here, in his chair, in his house, than I can over at the church with all those fancy flowers and crowds of people.”
“Uh … I was planning to go to the funeral,” explained Devin quickly, “but I was over at the Willard’s, and by the time …”
“Oh yes,” Carl Jepperson interrupted, with an impatient wave of his hand, “I hear you’re going to buy Jesse’s red Chevy. My boy’d sure like to have it.” He turned to look through the window as lightning flashed briefly across the sky and then continued, almost to himself. “There’s a mighty high price on that car. ’Course, if some people’d pay their bills …” He shifted his weight in the chair suddenly and looked straight at Devin.
“Your dad doesn’t have the money for that last load of lumber he took from me on credit. But he’s got plenty for hot rods, eh?”
Devin slid damp palms across his jeans and cleared his throat. “You know my dad’s short on cash right now. I’ve … uh … sort of decided to borrow the money from my missionary fund.”
“Borrow?” repeated Mr. Jepperson, and then barked a short, ironic laugh. “That’s the whole fund, boy, the whole thing. Spend is the word you’re looking for.” And then, before Devin could reply, a crafty look came into his eyes and he inquired, “What did your father say about all this?”
“Dad’s up at the construction site in Twin Lakes. He won’t be back until Tuesday.”
“So your Dad’s gonna have quite a little surprise,” mused Carl Jepperson, a bitter smile curling his lips. “I sure would like to see his face.”
Wheels crunched on the gravel driveway in front of the house, and headlights suddenly illuminated the rain-streaked windows. Devin’s feet took him to the front door almost of their own accord.
“Looks like somebody’s back from the funeral,” he commented, opening the door and peering through the rain. “I’ve got to be going now, anyway.”
He stepped out quickly, not looking back, but the growly voice followed him onto the porch: “Tell your dad I’ll be over to see him next Tuesday.”
He took the three steps leading down from the porch in a single jump, wincing slightly as the cold rain hit his shoulders, and then dodged quickly around to the side of the house where the old truck stood with rainwater streaming across its battered hood.
Wrenching the door open, he climbed up into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed down the driveway at a faster speed than was really safe. Soon he heard the steady hum of pavement under the tires as the road smoothed out, and then his fingers absently kept time with the steady pulse of the wipers as his thoughts went deeper and deeper.
“Lisa,” she called, “it’s your turn to set the table.” There was no response. The house was quiet for a change, and even the soft drippings from the rainspouts had gradually faded as the storm had passed. “Lisa!” she called again, and heard a faint rustling from the front room. A moment later Lisa appeared, book in hand, rubbing her eyes and stumbling slightly.
“Were you asleep, dear?” she asked.
“I was reading by the fire,” explained Lisa, “and it was so warm and comfortable …” She yawned and stretched languidly, her arms reaching high, and then abruptly dropped the book on the table with a loud slap that seemed to shatter the air. “Do you want the lace cloth or the gold one?” Lisa inquired over her shoulder, already heading into the dining room.
“The gold one, please,” she called as the door swung shut. Saturday dinner was the big meal of the week in the Edwards household. A tradition, she thought, handed down from my own childhood. I’m glad Mother refused to cook on Sundays, her mind continued. There were always such wonderful leftovers from the Saturday night dinners.
“Flowers,” she said softly under her breath, “for a special centerpiece.” And then an idea blossomed suddenly in her mind. Suppose I get the gold jeweler’s scale from the front room and put one of Bobby’s matchbox cars in one side and a picture of Jesus in the other. She paused to visualize the effect: fantastic for her Relief Society lesson; disastrous for Devin. The feeling of sad futility began to settle slowly into her soul again, but she shook it off and headed resolutely out into the backyard to see what flowers could still be gleaned for the dinner table.
The air was wonderful outside. The rain had stopped, but its fresh fragrance lingered. Leaves and branches were jeweled in liquid crystal. How beautiful! she marveled, lifting her head and drawing the quiet twilight scene into her soul.
She moved gracefully among the trees and hedges, choosing daisies and lilac branches. Her hands were nearly full when the pickup’s noisy rattle cut through the air. She turned to watch, screened by the shrubbery, as the old truck pulled up in the driveway and Devin swung out almost immediately. By the time she had walked over to the truck, he had lowered the tailgate and was struggling to lift an old but unfamiliar dirt bike to the ground.
“Whose is that?” she asked in surprise.
“Mine,” he grinned, enjoying her amazement. “But it used to be Bill Whipple’s. ’Course, he won’t be needing it, now that he’s gonna be driving Jess Willard’s ‘fancy motorcar.’”
“But …”
“So he sold it to me for 250 dollars.”
“But Devin, you don’t have …”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of work on his new car, that is,” he added. His head was down as he moved around the bike, wiping off drops of water which had beaded up on the tarnished chrome. “The transmission’s got to be completely redone, and it needs new points, and Bill wants me to …”
“Oh, Devin,” she said, relief washing over her in a tremendous wave.
He looked up at her and, for a brief moment, comprehended her emotion. She felt the old, familiar closeness there, stronger than ever. Then he ducked his head again, taking hold of the handlebars and pushing the bike slowly toward the garage.
“Hey, Mom,” he said casually, “did you notice that the storm’s over?”

It would never happen, you might say, but Kelli Pay of Glendale, Arizona, knows better. When she was on her mission in Ecuador, she really did have only five minutes to get ready to give a sacrament meeting talk.
“My heart pounded and my mind raced, but I was calmed with the fact that I had done this before,” says Kelli.
Remember Kelli and Brook? Kelli excelled in the public speaking competition—something that came in handy on her mission.

Cooper’s video game system was getting old. Whenever he raced cars, the screen froze and he had to restart the game.
“Can I get a new game system for my birthday?” Cooper asked Dad.
Dad shook his head. “I don’t think it fits into our budget. Remember how we spent quite a bit of money last year to buy your guitar and pay for music lessons?”
Cooper frowned. He wasn’t taking music lessons anymore.
“What if I earn the money?” Cooper asked. “Then maybe you could help me order one online.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Dad said.
Cooper went to work doing extra chores and mowing lawns for neighbors. He saved all summer.
Finally he had enough money, and Dad sent it to an online seller advertising the best price for the gaming system Cooper wanted.
Cooper couldn’t wait. Whenever the mailman came, Cooper checked the mailbox. When a delivery truck came down his street, Cooper hoped it was bringing a package for him. But none of the trucks stopped at his house. Weeks went by.
“When is it going to get here?” Cooper asked.
Dad looked worried. “I’m not sure. The seller never sent me the tracking number.”
A few days later, Dad told Cooper some bad news. “I think the seller we chose is dishonest. I can’t contact him on the phone or through email.”
Cooper couldn’t believe it. “You mean he stole my money?”
“It looks that way.”
Cooper hoped it wasn’t true. At night he prayed for a way to still get the gaming system he’d earned. The next day he asked Dad if he could have one for Christmas, but Dad just said, “I’m sorry this happened. Next time we’ll both know to be more careful.”
It seemed there was only one thing left to do: start saving money again. But school had started and Cooper didn’t have as much time for extra chores. “It isn’t fair,” he complained to himself as he sat moping in his room one afternoon. Then he noticed something he hadn’t paid much attention to for a while—his guitar.
Cooper picked it up and tuned it. He strummed a few chords and played through the songs he’d learned. It didn’t take long because he hadn’t had many lessons. He sat with the guitar on his lap, his fingers itching to play something new. He wondered if he could make up a song of his own.
A few hours later, Cooper played his brand new song all the way through. It felt so great that he couldn’t wait to write another one.
Cooper practiced his guitar all winter. He read books about playing the guitar. And when he had time, he earned a little extra money.
When spring came, Dad said, “How are the savings coming? Are you ready to pick out a new gaming system?”
Cooper thought about it. “I don’t know if I want one anymore.”
Sometimes he played video games at his friends’ houses, but he hadn’t really missed playing them at home. Playing guitar was fun, and he felt like he’d accomplished something great every time he wrote or learned a new song.
“I think I’ll leave the money in savings until I know what I want to use it for,” Cooper said.
“Sounds smart.”
Cooper was surprised at how much fun he was having playing his guitar. All year long, his plan had been to play video games. Now he didn’t even miss them. Heavenly Father hadn’t helped him get the video game system, but He had blessed Cooper with something better—the ability to be happy without it.

The chute burst open and a raging, bucking bronco leaped high into the air. A cowboy sat atop, in perfect form, his spurs above the point of the shoulders, the rhythm of each move matched to the twisting and turning of the wild horse.
But then the crowd rose to its feet and gasped as the massive animal came crashing down on its side, all of its weight crushing the left foot of its rider.
Zane Davis picked himself up and hobbled over to the chute. When he got his boot off, the foot began to swell. The crushed bones eliminated his chances to continue in the competition, but that didn’t keep Zane down.
Less than a month later he was back in the saddle, working his way to the title as top college rodeo rider in the United States.
Now Zane is serving a mission in Brazil and teaching the gospel to people in Portuguese. And he says, “I wouldn’t trade this mission experience for anything—even a national professional rodeo championship.”
It was in June of 1990 that Zane Davis secured the award as the national collegiate all-around cowboy of the year in the College National Finals Rodeo in Bozeman, Montana. Although only a freshman at the College of Southern Idaho, Zane didn’t get to the number one spot by simply riding a few wild horses and winning a few competitions. Zane’s training started before he could walk, when his father, Shawn Davis (a three-time National Finals Rodeo saddle bronc world champion), took him along to rodeos across North America.
At the age of three, Zane insisted that he be allowed to ride in the rodeo against the 8–12-year-old cowboys, but since he was underage, he was only allowed to ride exhibition. Undaunted, he put on his hat, boots, rope, and spurs, and climbed aboard a cranky calf. Zane says that the next thing he knew he was on the ground and a clown was standing over him fanning him with a giant fly swatter. Apparently, he had ridden the calf almost to the whistle before falling off.
He entered his next rodeo when he was only five, and this time a pony bucked him off. But he still walked away with third-place honors. Hundreds of rodeos later, Zane had accumulated an impressive array of saddles, belt buckles, trophies, and cash prizes. The success came as a result of hard work.
Each day at his parents’ ranch in Wyoming, Zane’s exercise routine included 80 sit-ups, 20 pull-ups, and 400 push-ups. In addition, his riding included roping 10 to 20 calves and practicing once a week for each riding event. Also, before each rodeo, Zane asked his father for a father’s blessing. Zane says, “I feel that these blessings kept me from getting injured on many occasions, and when I was injured, I recovered remarkably fast.”
Zane adds that obeying the Word of Wisdom has been a great blessing in his life. “Other cowboys who drink and do drugs may be good for a very short time, but they never last long,” he says.
Another reason Zane has done so well is because he has learned to face challenges. At one rodeo he drew a bull that had thrown all the college kids off who had tried to ride it. But Zane, at only 13, got on the bull and rode him three out of five attempts. “I don’t remember ever being really frightened at a rodeo,” said Zane. “A little fear is always good for you, but too much fear is not good. If you have a little fear you plan a little better. If you have too much fear you may get out of control.”
One of the hardest decisions Zane ever had to face was whether or not to go on a mission. He had colleges all over the nation soliciting him, and although he had always planned on a mission, the final decision was really hard. “But I decided I had to go on a mission to try to pay the Lord back for some of the many blessings I have received,” he said.
Zane recently wrote from his mission and said, “I’ve learned many things. I’ve changed a lot. I thought riding three head of stock at each rodeo all summer long was tough, but it wasn’t anything as tough as serving a mission; nevertheless, it has been good for me.”
In his life, Zane Davis has ridden a thousand wild horses, roped a thousand more calves. Rodeo became easy to him, second nature. But perhaps the best thing about the sport was the chance to be with his father. Shawn was always there, watching him, helping him stay safe.
A mission in Brazil has not been as easy. There have been problems learning the language and culture. But Zane is improving daily. And, best of all, his Father in Heaven is always there, watching him, helping him stay safe.

Will the Guiness Book of World Records ever believe that a 230-page novel was authored in just 30 hours? If they don’t, they can ask Dale Van Atta, from Rochester, New York, managing editor of the Brigham Young University Daily Universe. Dale spent a grueling weekend in a downtown Provo store window producing the literary wonder to help raise money for an addition to the student library.
The ordeal began at 4:00 P.M. Friday, February 16, as Dale drew from a hat three story ideas submitted by the public. From these he chose to write on the trials of a POW during captivity and his reunion with his family and friends.
With the release of American prisoners making national headlines, Dale surprised everyone by approaching the story from a different angle. As completed pages were hung in the window by assistants, it became clear that the hero was no ordinary POW, but a mercenary captured during a domestic dispute in Argentina.
“I didn’t know enough about Vietnam and POWs so I chose Argentina,” Dale explained between pages. “I don’t know much about Argentina either, but then neither does anyone else.” He grinned.
Early Saturday morning Dale’s nimble fingers gave out on him, and a staff of typists were called in to record his dictation.
Ten o’clock Saturday night arrived and the world’s fastest novel was complete. As a result of his 30-hour stunt, Dale garnered over $1,200 for the student library fund.

“Hey, Coach,” he called as I was working with the senior shot putters and discus throwers. I ignored him.
“Hey, Coach Crowe,” he persisted, “that other coach over there said I should come over here and throw. He said you should watch me.”
I turned around and looked at the kid. His black hair hung unevenly over his forehead, his bony shoulders angled out of his baggy tank top, and his long skinny arms hung low, almost to his knees. When the wind blew, his practice uniform flapped around his bony frame like clothes on a scarecrow. He was obviously a freshman.
In his right hand he held a discus, the black rubber kind we issued to beginning throwers. “You wanna watch me throw?” he asked.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Darwin Hughes.”
“Where’d you get that discus, Hughes? You’re too small to be a weight man.”
“Well, Coach,” he answered, “I like throwing, and I’m pretty good. If you’ll watch me, I’ll …”
“Not now, Hughes. I’m working with the seniors. Tell you what, go over to that discus ring over there,” I pointed to the opposite end of the field, “and you throw. I’ll come down in a little while and see how you’re doing, okay?”
“Sure, Coach.” He turned and loped off to the other end of the practice field.
I went back to work with my seniors. Boy, these freshmen, I thought. Why are they so goofy? That kid has as much chance of becoming a discus thrower as I do of becoming president of the United States.
Practice went pretty much as usual that day, and I was too busy with my seniors to find the time to go watch Hughes. The next two days he hung around the throwing areas, and each time I banished him to the opposite end of the field to throw by himself so he couldn’t bother me as I worked with the upperclassmen.
Finally, on the fourth day, some of the throwers came to see me. “Hey, Coach,” said one, “have you seen that freshman throw yet?”
“You mean that scrawny little kid Hughes? I can’t believe he’s still wasting his time. Look, if you guys want to throw down there, just tell him to go work with the distance runners. He’d have a better chance of making the team with them.”
“But, Coach,” interrupted one of them, “maybe you ought to see him throw. He’s throwing over 130 feet.”
That got my attention; 130 feet would make him the number two thrower on my varsity squad. These guys must be pulling my leg, I thought. But I’d better go down and watch, just to make sure.
By the time I got down there, a little crowd had gathered around the discus ring. In the center stood Hughes, just beginning another throw. He held his arms out, bent his knees, spun twice through the ring, and launched a throw that was easily 130 feet.
After he finished his throw, he looked over at me and grinned sheepishly, as if I had caught him doing something wrong. “Come here, Hughes,” I said. He trotted over. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“I dunno, Coach. I threw a little bit in eighth grade, but mainly I just like to throw.”
“Tell you what, Hughes,” I said as I put my arm around his shoulder, “from now on you can throw down at the other end with the upperclassmen so I can watch you a little more.”
Never let it be said that I didn’t recognize talent when it hit me in the face.
By his sophomore year, Darwin had developed into a fine discus thrower. He won nearly every dual meet and placed in every prestigious invitational meet he attended. At five-foot-nine, 145 pounds, Darwin looked out of place among the Goliaths of the shot put and discus rings, and many times when he first began competing on the varsity, throwers from other schools would laugh at skinny Darwin Hughes. Their laughter, however, changed to amazement as soon as he took his first warm-up throw.
By the end of his sophomore year, no one laughed at him anymore because little Darwin finished third in the state championships by throwing 165 feet, two inches.
In his junior and senior seasons, the littlest weight man was the best thrower in Arizona. Spectators, coaches, and other throwers marveled at how such a small thrower (by his senior year Darwin was five-foot-ten, 165 pounds) could throw a discus more than 185 feet and a 12-pound shot more than 57 feet. And I have to admit, even as his coach, I was often amazed at all Darwin accomplished. I’m convinced that, considering his size, Darwin was the best high school weight man in the United States.
People would often ask me, “How does he do it? What’s Hughes’s secret?” I wish I could have answered that Darwin owed all his success to me, but that wasn’t true. First of all, Darwin had some inherent ability, some natural skill for what he was trying to do. Based on that ability, he then applied some basic principles of success.
Second, he had a desire to excel, to be the best discus thrower he could possibly be. “Coach,” he told me one day at practice, “I don’t know how far I can throw, but I’m going to do everything I can to be one of the best weight men Arizona has ever had.”
At the time he was only a sophomore, and considering his size, I was afraid he was setting his goals too high. “Look, Darwin, you’re doing super right now. You should feel great about what you’ve already accomplished. This is a big man’s sport, so with your size, you can’t expect to get much better.”
“But, Coach, I know I can do better. I just know it.” He was right. The next year, Darwin improved his best throw by 20 feet.
But it wasn’t only his drive to excel that helped Darwin succeed. He also believed in himself. Ignored by his own coach as a freshman, scoffed at by competitors as a sophomore, Darwin remained convinced that he could and would be successful. Near the end of his senior season I asked him why he didn’t give up during those first years. He shrugged and explained, “When no one else believes in you, you’ve got to believe in yourself.”
Confidence alone, however, wasn’t enough to make a mountain of a thrower out of a molehill of a boy. Darwin was a dedicated, hard worker. Every day he’d be out to practice a half hour early, throwing by himself. And on most spring afternoons and evenings, he and I would be the only ones left on the practice field, working on his technique until it was too dark to see anymore. Darwin would even spend hours on Saturdays throwing and throwing and throwing.
I’ve never coached an athlete who worked harder than Darwin, and I’ve never coached an athlete who was as successful as he was either. Someone said once, “If you want to be a superstar, you’ve got to start early and stay late.” That was certainly true for Darwin.
But all his hard work wasn’t without direction. Darwin listened intently to every coaching tip he ever received and worked diligently to turn that advice into improvement. When I asked Darwin to do something differently or advised him to spend more time in the weight room, he’d say, “Okay, Coach,” and he’d do it.
Darwin also studied his event. He poured through every track-and-field textbook in our school’s library and was able to quote extensively from the Track and Field News about recent events and technique development. He read coaching journals, sports pages, and anything else that might have a bit of information he could use to become a better weight man. By the time he graduated, Darwin knew more about his event than I did.
And finally, Darwin followed great examples. As a freshman and sophomore, he would carefully watch and study the throwing methods of the leading weight men in the state. As he increased his knowledge, he began to attend college meets to study the methods of collegiate weight men. He even talked me into ordering films of the world’s greatest discus throwers, and he spent hours watching them.
His talents and his efforts made Darwin Hughes the best weight man ever at our high school and ranked him as the fifth best discus thrower in the history of Arizona. All at five-foot-ten, 165 pounds.