Gospel Story Finder

The Salas Family: Second-Generation Leaders. Alfredo Salas, president of the Buenos Aires West stake, is an example of what is happening today in Argentina as a result of parents who have sacrificed old ways to adopt the vision of their new faith. “My parents joined the Church when I was 11,” says President Salas. “I grew up attending a little branch in Bahía Blanca.” When the seminary program was introduced, he wanted to attend, but his parents, already sacrificing to send him to school, were concerned it would interfere with his studies. To alleviate their concerns, he and his brother studied extra hard. To go to seminary, they would get up at 5:00 A.M. and run several blocks to catch a bus. After the bus ride, they ran eight blocks to the chapel. Then, to arrive at school on time, they ran the eight blocks back to the bus, which carried them back to their neighborhood, and then ran all the way to school. “This sacrifice cemented my testimony,” he reflects.

With the backing of his parents, a mission followed, which greatly deepened his testimony. When he returned, he faced a new dilemma because of his limited finances: whether to finish his schooling or get married. The choice was not easy. Nevertheless, he chose to marry, and it took seven more years before he finally received his degree in computer science. At age 26 he was called as a bishop and served in that calling during the final two years of his schooling. He subsequently went on to earn a master’s degree in business administration. As a result of his parents’ emphasis on learning, today President Salas is doing well as country manager of a computer programming company, and he is able to devote time to Church service.

Celebrating Christ’s life during the Christmas season brings both families and friends closer together. Jennifer Adams, of Pleasanton, California, discovered this when she went away to school.
She and her roommates knew they would spend most of the time leading up to Christmas away from their families. But they didn’t want to miss out on the traditions and special experiences of home, so they started some of their own.
They took a long candle, decorated it with numbers from 1 to 25, and placed it in the center of the living room. Every night they lit the candle and let it burn down one number.
While the candle burned, they sang traditional Christmas hymns and shared stories of service and giving. Some nights, they bore testimony of the Savior and talked about what Christmas meant to them.
It only took 15 minutes a night and made for a meaningful holiday season. It became a tradition Jennifer will one day incorporate in her own home. It also brought the roommates closer together and created a feeling of having a family even while they were away at college.

I’m glad this question was directed to me, because it’s a problem I have struggled with several times in years past. I thought for years that being called as president of the Relief Society was the greatest achievement for an LDS woman. If that did not happen then being called as president of the Primary or of the Young Women would be almost as satisfying.

Instead, I found myself serving as everything else. Several times I was a counselor in Relief Society, but never president.

I found reasons: “I wasn’t called because I have too many young children.” Then the next president would have four children not yet old enough to go to school. “I wasn’t called because I’m too young.” The next president would be younger. “I wasn’t called because I’ve only been in the ward five years.” The next president would be someone who had just moved into the ward.

Finally, there was to be another change, and everything seemed to indicate that I would be released as Junior Sunday School coordinator and called to lead Relief Society. I was sure my time had come. The bishop made an appointment with me “to talk about how things are going in Junior Sunday School,” but I knew he just wanted me to be surprised when he called me to a Relief Society position. I was ready with a list of things I thought would be new ideas; I had even decided who I would request for counselors.

Then came the meeting with the bishop. And do you know what we talked about? The Junior Sunday School!

I was really disappointed. I complained to my husband that the bishop must not think I was capable. When he gently replied that callings are from the Lord, I started to cry: “It doesn’t make me feel any better that the Lord doesn’t think I’m capable, either.”

Yes I really suffered at the time, but something happened to me, and I have never felt those feelings again. Like you, I was shocked and ashamed of my negative feelings; I really desired to change my attitude. And I finally did what I should have done before: instead of finding “reasons” for why someone else was chosen, or suppressing my disappointment, I went before the Lord, confessed my feelings—all of my feelings—and searched more deeply than before for the Lord’s reasons. When I was ready to learn, he was ready to teach me. Over the next few weeks, a process began that is still continuing. Gradually my understanding was opened, and the true nature of callings in the Lord’s kingdom was impressed on my heart. I’ve come to know the following things:
A calling is an opportunity to serve, not a reward. We sometimes carry over from the business world the idea that unless we are able to “work our way up” and become president of an organization our abilities have not been properly recognized. We have to be aware that the Lord is not giving us rewards by calling us, but is asking for wholehearted service. A calling may prove to be a blessing to us, it is true, but that depends upon our efforts after the call.
The true hierarchy of the Church is a hierarchy of righteousness. The Lord judges our hearts and actions, not the “level” of our callings. We have celestial visiting teachers in many wards, and celestial choristers and teachers. It’s character that pleases the Lord, not calling.
We cannot anticipate (or predict) the actions of our Heavenly Father. “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith Lord.” (Isa. 55:8.) Sometimes when we look back after a few years we can see the purposes of the Lord unfolding in our lives. It may be as hard for us to see this as it sometimes is for our own children to understand the direction we give to their lives. We marvel that the Creator has worked things out with such delicate balance in nature. Why not trust him, then, and strive for understanding? Why not truly say with Mary, “Be it unto me according to thy word.” (Luke 1:38.)
We can fulfill our own callings better. President Duane Lloyd, a counselor in the Philadelphia Pennsylvania Stake Presidency, comments, “No one is doing his own calling as well as he could be doing.” He recommends redoubling our efforts in our present callings as an antidote to desiring the callings of others. It means to change your attitude so that you feel your calling is the best one in the Church. It is really effective.
We need to be humble. Jesus told several parables and gave much counsel on the importance of being humble. He knew that we (and those around us) will be happier when we are not lifted up in our pride, happier when we are not coveting another’s opportunities. One of Lehi’s sons, Jacob, appropriately summarized all these thoughts when he said, “Wherefore, brethren, seek not to counsel the Lord, but to take counsel from his hand. For behold, ye yourselves know that he counseleth in wisdom, and in justice, and in great mercy, over all his works.” (Jacob 4:10.)
My earnest hope in sharing these experiences and thoughts with you is that your heart may be softened to the ways of the Lord, and that you can come to know that your Father loves you and cares for you. Who knows but that your service, wherever it may be, might be an example to someone who, unknown to you, models his attitudes on yours.

This past Christmas, my wife and I decided that we would purchase an old, used snowmobile as a large family gift. My challenge was to figure out how I would get the snowmobile to the family cabin we would be staying at and have it waiting outside on Christmas morning. The main obstacle was the fact that the old trailer I was planning on transporting it with had a problem. The lights didn't work.

Over the years we have used that trailer for all kinds of things, but its main purpose was to haul goats. We had a number of large goats that we used as pack animals. We loved to go backpacking but because our children were so young, we needed help carrying everything, so these large goats, which can each carry 40-50 lbs, were a big help. This old trailer had served us well in this capacity, but recently the lights had been giving us problems and had finally stopped working a couple of years ago.

Though it was always at the back of my mind, at least on Saturday's, I procrastinated fixing it because I just knew it would mean redoing all the wiring. This was despite the fact that it meant I didn't use the trailer much anymore, and when I did, I would feel guilty as I would occasionally sneak out to the dump with loads of garbage early on Saturday mornings, trying to use the old hand signals you learn in elementary school bicycle safety classes.

So now it is December 24. Our family's Christmas depended on my getting the trailer fixed so that I can sneak back home from the cabin during the night and get the snowmobile there for Christmas morning. I can't let anyone know I am fixing it because that would give it away. So after two years of procrastination, I snuck out early in the morning to rewire the trailer.

It was 8 degrees out and the wind was blowing so I bundled up and put on my old one-piece purple ski suit from DI. My first task was to replace the plug that goes into the back of the vehicle since we have a different vehicle than we did when the lights last worked. This went pretty smoothly and I started hoping that the old plug may have been the problem in the first place. So after replacing it, I pulled around our Suburban and plugged it in. I then went around to the back of the trailer and got real excited when I saw that the trailer lights were on. I knew I was being blessed.

I quietly drug my wife out of the warm house and had her sit in the driver's seat while I went around to the back of the trailer again. Crossing my fingers, I asked her to turn on the left signal. But both the left and right lights started blinking. I then had her turn on the right signal and the same thing happened. She then pushed the brake and instead of both lights getting brighter, all the lights went out completely. I knew I was sunk, that I was going to spend the rest of the day crawling under the trailer, in the snow, replacing all the wiring.

In my desperation, and in order to give myself a few minutes to warm up inside, I decided to turn to the true source of all secular knowledge—the internet and Google.

After typing some keywords describing my trailer's symptoms, I was amazed that one of the first links addressed my exact symptoms of both lights blinking instead of one and the lights going out when the brake is applied. I couldn't believe it. I wanted to kiss the screen, particularly when I read that the solution was something very simple and easy to fix.

According to the website, the problem was that the trailer's electrical system was not properly grounded. There was likely a wire that was poorly connected to the frame of the trailer - a wire that should normally complete the electrical circuit and allow electricity to flow freely from my vehicle, to trailer lights, and back again.

Energized, I snuck back outside, crawled under the trailer, and sure enough discovered that the ground wire was almost broken off. So I cut off the bad end of the wire and stripped some of the white insulation exposing clean good wire and reattached it.

I grabbed my wife again and got behind the trailer and excitedly asked her to push the brake. The lights went out just like before. The turn signal didn't work either. However, I could tell that there was some improvement because the lights, when they were on, were brighter than they had been, which gave me some hope that I was on the right track.

I quickly remembered that as I was fixing the ground wire, the thought had come to me that I should probably clean up the metal of the frame and the screw, but because my hands were numb, and I was in a hurry, I ignored that thought. I went back, undid the screw, used a wire brush to clean off the rust and clean up the screw, and got it back together.

I got my wife back out a third time—she pushed the break pedal—and hallelujah, the brake lights came on as bright as can be. And sure enough only the right light blinked when it was supposed to and so did the left. After two years of worrying about it, and the pressure of getting it fixed that day in the cold, I literally jumped up and down and hugged my wife I was so happy.

A few minutes later, as I was gathering up my tools and thinking about what had happened, the Spirit quietly spoke to me and said in essence, "there are some important lessons that can be learned from this experience, use them well."

When two Latter-day Saint missionaries visited the Graybeal home in 1959, Alexandria knew their message was special. Her husband and two children were touched, too, and the Graybeals progressed toward baptism. When Brother Graybeal learned that the Air Force was transferring him to Germany, he decided to be baptized before he left. Alexandria, however, was struggling to know whether Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Some time later, after the family had moved to Germany, her husband said, “If you really want to know, go to Heavenly Father and ask him.” That night Alexandria did just that. “I don’t know what happened,” she explains, “but the next morning I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet.” Alexandria and the two children were baptized a short time later in Kerlsrue, West Germany, in June 1960.
“I just felt wonderful,” Sister Graybeal says, remembering her baptism. “My testimony was strengthened after that, and I couldn’t get enough of the gospel. I studied and studied. It was like walking through a door and finding that the light was shining. It was beautiful.”

Let me share with you the experience of Barry Bonnell and Dale Murphy, well-known professional baseball players formerly with the Atlanta Braves baseball club. Each is a convert to the Church, Dale Murphy having been baptized by Barry Bonnell.
“An experience occurred during the 1978 season that Barry described as ‘life-changing.’ He was struggling terribly, batting about .200. Because of his poor performance, he was down on himself and felt miserable. He really didn’t want to go when Dale Murphy asked him to come along to the hospital, but he went anyway. There he met Ricky Little, a stalwart [Atlanta] Braves’ supporter, but a youngster afflicted with leukemia. It was readily apparent that Ricky was near death. Barry felt a deep desire to think of something comforting to say but nothing seemed adequate. Finally, he asked if there was anything they could do. The youngster hesitated, and then asked if they would each hit a home run for him during the next game. Barry said [later], ‘That request wasn’t such a hard thing for Dale, who in fact hit two homers that night, but I was struggling at the plate and hadn’t hit a homer all year. Then I felt a warm feeling come over me and I told Ricky to count on it.’” That night, Barry hit his only home run of the season.10 A child’s prayer had been answered, a child’s wish had been fulfilled.

One time, early in the morning after Mama and I had spent the night with him and Grandma, Grandpa and I went to buy a morning newspaper because the funnies are the best thing to read before breakfast. On the way, he found a big broken branch that made a good walking stick. He pretended to hobble with it, then did a silly hop, skip, and jump. We had more fun than anything!
When we got home, Grandma took one look at Grandpa’s stick and said, “You get that dirty old thing out of the house!” Grandpa just laughed. He lifted her off the floor and swung her around.
“Put me down!” she screeched, but she was laughing too.
Grandpa kissed her before we went into the living room to read the funnies to each other.
That’s the way it used to be.

Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.

“It is my own life story because it really is a portrayal of me. I faced the same problems in my life,” said Raymond Tracey, a young Navaho Latter-day Saint from Ganada, Arizona, and star of a new motion picture, Indian.
Tracey (most of his friends call him by his last name) portrays a young Navaho who lived on a reservation with his grandparents until he was old enough to be taken out of his Indian world and educated in the white man’s world. After high school his life is at a crossroads. He was born an Indian, has the blood and looks of an Indian, and yet doesn’t feel like an Indian.
He wonders whether he should stay in the world that he has become used to, or if he should go back to the reservation and try to become an Indian once again. He gets in his jeep and begins a journey to talk to other Indians before he can decide who he is and where he belongs. He works hard to discover what being Indian really means.
Tracey has a natural feel for the character in the film. He could understand many of his concerns and confusion because he left his own home and parents when he was ten to live with another family and attend school on the Church’s Indian placement program.
“I had some ideas about the two very different worlds of the main character in the film,” said Brother Kieth Merrill, producer-director of Indian. “As we shot footage of Tracey each day, new insights and feelings would keep presenting themselves. Finally we reached a point where it was hard to tell where the story line I was carrying around in my head stopped and the story of Tracey’s own life began. The plot of Tracey’s life was so strong and universal that it merged with the story line of the film.”
The film portrays specific experiences that differ from those that actually happened to Tracey, but most of the emotional conflicts and discoveries are identical to those he experienced while he was growing up.
Before the main character in the film leaves the reservation for school, his grandfather tells him, “Always remember, my son, that you are an Indian. Don’t forget it. Gain an education, but be proud of your Indian heritage at the same time.”
Tracey’s parents felt the same way about sending him on placement. “My parents always wanted the best for me,” he said. “I didn’t know we were poor when I was small, but now I know it. We lived in a one-room house with a dirt floor. I didn’t see my father very often because he would leave for work at five in the morning. He had to hitchhike into town and then go to work driving a logging truck all day. He came home at night after I was in bed.” His father did this summer and winter. Both parents hoped and planned and worked, and taught their children.
“They planted some important ideas deep inside our minds while we were very young.”
They taught Tracey and his brothers and sisters the gospel and English while they were small children. Tracey went to kindergarten speaking English when most of his friends spoke only Navaho. He also learned that he was special in the sight of his Father in heaven. It was easier for him to adjust to placement because of this background.
“The gospel has always been a force in my life. In addition I never had to think in Navaho and then translate it into English. I grew up thinking in English, and that is an asset. I was called on a mission to my people before I learned to speak Navaho and think the way Navahos think.”
Leaving home and family was hard for young Tracey, but he adjusted well.
“Once I got over seeing everyone as either a brown skin or a white skin, I really got a lot out of placement. I wasn’t treated as a foreigner. All my brothers and sisters and my new mom and dad made me welcome. But I was no guest to be pampered. I was a total part of the family. I had to take out the trash, wash dishes three times a week, and carry my own part of the responsibilities just like everyone else.”
Tracey’s participation in sports helped his natural shyness to fade and gave him confidence in all of his abilities. “Without confidence I would never have been able to perform in front of a camera and crew, with a hundred people on the set watching me,” he said.
His increasing knowledge of the gospel also gave him confidence.
“My foster parents taught me the value of a really good, stable family life. I grew up with good families. We had family prayer, family home evening, and we went to church together. These are all examples I hope to follow with my own family,” he said.
In the film Tracey travels across America talking to other Indians. He asks, “What is an Indian? What does he do? How does he think?” And, of course, each person he talks to gives a different answer. He met and talked to many interesting people. This is exciting to him because it has given him a chance to help accurately portray Lamanites and give them some identity and credit.
“They deserve a better image of themselves than what they have seen in the movies. I’ve grown up seeing my people portrayed only as scalping savages.
“While I was still living in Arizona, we would get to see movies in elementary school. There were a lot of cowboy, cavalry, and Indian films shown. Indians would invariably sweep around the bend and wipe out a whole wagon train. They were savages. Then the cavalry would dash after the Indians, and that whole theater of Indian kids would shout and cheer for the cavalry. No kid wants to identify with the bad guy, and yet we never saw a film where Indians were any good. I was always a cowboy when we played cowboys and Indians. Cowboys rode white horses, carried shiny guns, and always won. Indians weren’t smart enough to win,” Tracey said.
Yet deep inside himself Tracey knew he could win. His parents had taught him that winning depends on the individual. They had taught him that if you want to win, you can win. “Feeling inferior is terrible, and I felt it quite often during junior high school,” he said.
By the time he got into high school, however, Tracey knew he was breaking out of his inferiority feelings. He ran cross-country for the track team, and he was elected student body vice-president.
“By then I felt great,” he said. “I remembered the teachings of my own parents. I knew I had a Father in heaven who loved me and that in his eyes I was just as good as anyone else. I knew I would be judged on my own abilities and what I was able to do with them.
“Now, through the medium of film, I can help other Indians gain a realization of these same true principles.”
Tracey also feels that many of his childhood teachings would be beneficial for all men to know. When he was young, he learned to notice the order and balance of nature. “My father had me look at a bee, and he would say, ‘Look at that little stinger and how it comes out. It can be used for two things, good or bad. If you hurt him or threaten him, he will sting you with the stinger. But if you let him alone, he’ll use that stinger to gather pollen and nectar from the flowers. And he’ll take it back to his home and make honey out of it. You have the knowledge to destroy him or to use him for your own benefit. He is your brother.’”
Tracey learned to respect every living thing. The trees, the animals that lived in them, and even the land they grew on were respected as if they were his brothers and sisters. Years before he heard the word ecology he had learned to look at the full cycle of nature. He knew the Navahos built hogans (wooden framed mounds covered with dirt) because they didn’t want to add to nor detract from the landscape. They just wanted to fit in and be a part of the land.
“At first,” he said, “Navahos didn’t even want windows in the hogans because when you look at one from a distance it should blend right in to the landscape. When a hogan has a window, it causes reflections that look unnatural and it draws attention to itself, and this isn’t pleasing to a Navaho.”
Tracey also explained that many young Indians are taught to run and exercise because they believe if your body is physically fit then your mind works better and there will be no room for dark thunderclouds in it. These kinds of teachings are also part of the gospel and he hopes to be able to give them to his children.
“When my son is out in nature and he notices something beautiful, I want him to feel like I do about it. He will stop and look and appreciate and give thanks, and he’ll know it couldn’t have happened by chance. And wherever he walks, he will leave beauty behind him and see beauty before him.”
At the end of the film, Tracey, after traveling coast to coast, talking and probing his identity with other Indians, finally comes home. By this time his grandfather has died, and so he goes to the grave and reports.
“Grandfather, I’ve done what you wanted me to do. I’ve been to the white man’s school. I got my education, and yet I’ve never forgotten that I am an Indian with a heritage that I am proud of. I met a boxer who is an Indian. I met a journalist who is an Indian. I’ve met politicians who are Indians. I met all kinds of people who are Indians, and now I know what it is to be an Indian. Grandfather, what I want to be is myself. To be me. To be whatever I want to be. I want to take what you have planted in my heart and give it to someone else. I want to take my education and give it back to my people.”
Tracey lived these moments for the cameras. Yet to him it was more than acting because he had made the same discoveries once before.
“A time came,” he said, “when I didn’t think of myself as an Indian and my foster family as being white. We were all treated the same, and I just thought of myself as me. This was reinforced as my testimony became stronger. I began to realize that part of being me meant that I was also a son of God. I knew the Church was true during my first year of college. At the same time I wanted to go on a mission. I was really integrated. I was an Indian with a different cultural background, and I knew the technology of the white man. But I had also learned to communicate with my Father in heaven. I knew he loved me. He helped me discover that I am a son of God, and that is my true culture as it should be for all Latter-day Saints.
“It was easier then to say, ‘These white-man teachings fit here, those Indian teachings fit there.’ And I understood what I should throw away in both cultures because the gospel became the real living force in my life. It brought the two pads of my past together and gave my life true meaning.”
Since he finished Indian, Tracey has starred in another motion picture called Joe Panther, which tells the story of a young Seminole Indian seeking his place in modern society.
Although his acting career is just starting, Tracey is already receiving praise for his ability. He is also drawing attention to his way of life. Wherever he has worked, he has influenced other members of the casts and crews. On one occasion a cast member told him, “Everybody on this set is searching for what you already have.” A cast member of Joe Panther wouldn’t even drink coffee when Tracey was on the set. “I’ve taken up drinking orange juice because that is what you drink,” he said.
Ray Tracey and Caroline Wuneka, from Crystal, New Mexico, were married in the Salt Lake Temple just before filming began on Joe Panther. Since this film was shot in the Everglades, they enjoyed a nice Florida honeymoon.
Tracey hopes to do more acting in movies. However, he stressed, “I’m not going to do any movie that will discredit my race or my church, or in any way make people ashamed of me.” Tracey hopes he can be an example for other young people. He is working to accomplish the tasks spelled out for him in his patriarchal blessing.
“I hope to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord to bring the gospel to many of my people. I hope I can be worthy to do this, and right now it seems that part of the answer lies with the media. That is one way I can reach many of them,” he said.
Like the characters in his films, Tracey displays courage, perseverance, and sensitivity. He knows that life gives you an opportunity to overcome difficulties, and that by doing this you get stronger. Most of all, he knows that the gospel gives direction and meaning to everyone who will embrace it.

“How long is it until I can get baptized?” Lizzie asked during dinner. She was excited to turn eight soon. She had already asked her older brother Jake to baptize her before he left on his mission.
“In two months, right after your birthday,” Mom said.
“That seems so far away!” Lizzie said. She stared at her plate, trying not to seem disappointed.
Lizzie wanted to be baptized so badly. She liked the safe, happy feeling she felt at church, almost like a hug around her heart. Mom said that feeling was the Holy Ghost. Lizzie wanted to be baptized so she could be clean and have the Holy Ghost with her all the time.
“I know it’s hard to wait,” Dad said. “Maybe it would help if you think about the promises you’ll be making when you’re baptized and practice keeping them now.”
Lizzie thought about that as she cleared the table after dinner. “Dad’s right,” she thought. “Two months isn’t so long. And when the day comes, I want to be ready to promise to be good and choose the right.”
Lizzie felt that safe feeling inside again, and she smiled as she offered to help wash the dishes.
As the days passed, Lizzie tried to be more reverent and listen to the lessons at church. She especially loved hearing about Jesus. She put a picture of Him by her bed to remind her to think about Him more.
Lizzie also tried harder to do what was right. She was friendly to a new boy in her class. She was more patient with her sister Whitney and even let her be the princess when they played. Lizzie tried to be helpful and obedient to her parents. And when she did something unkind or wrong, Lizzie said she was sorry.
Finally, the week came when Lizzie would be baptized. Bishop Cohen interviewed her to see if she was ready. He asked if she believed in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Lizzie thought back to the lessons she had had in the past weeks. “Yes, I believe,” she said. She was glad she had been paying more attention in Primary and family home evening.
Then Bishop Cohen asked her some questions about keeping the commandments. Lizzie remembered how she had been trying hard to do what was right, and it felt good to be able to tell that to Bishop Cohen.
When her baptism day arrived, Lizzie put on her white dress. As she stepped down into the baptismal font, the water swirled around her legs, just warm enough. Lizzie felt her heart being hugged.
Jake smiled at Lizzie and took her hand. She was glad that he was there to baptize her, and she felt peaceful and calm knowing that she was ready.

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

At the time, I had been active in the Church only a short while. I had served a mission but later left the Church after getting caught up in the entertainment industry and using drugs and alcohol. I thought my family would be impressed with my career and wealth, but my mother didn’t care about any of that. Instead, she always put my name on the temple prayer roll, which angered me.
The woman I married had also left the Church. By the time our eight-year-old daughter, Tori, began asking questions about Jesus Christ, we had bottomed out spiritually. Despite my missionary service, I couldn’t remember anything about the Savior.
“There are people who are qualified to teach you about Jesus,” I told Tori. “Why don’t you talk to them?”
A few days later, two sister missionaries knocked on our door. Tori invited them in and began taking the discussions. Eavesdropping from another room, I heard the sisters teaching doctrines that I recognized to be true.
“Would you like to be baptized?” one of the sisters asked Tori after the third discussion.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Will your dad baptize you?”
I had not been to church for 20 years, but I knew my life was about to change. I sat in on the last few discussions, we started attending church, and my wife and I met with the bishop. As I repented, I decided that I must do everything possible to compensate for the years I had lost. I changed careers, magnified my Church callings, was sealed to my wife and daughter, and became a temple worker. That’s how I knew that a curious group of young people could become temple worthy.
My journey back to the temple was remarkable, and learning of Lars’s journey was a wonderful blessing that reminded me how we can all touch lives for good.

After missing a bus in Nairobi, Kenya, my companion and I decided to share the gospel with everyone we saw while waiting for another bus to our area. We talked to over 400 people.
One of them was Benard, who worked construction nearby. We gave him a Book of Mormon and challenged him to read it daily and ask God if it was true.
Four months later, I was transferred to Nairobi. At my first sacrament meeting there, I saw Benard. He had since been baptized and ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood.

That interest and excitement about missionary work has spread. Victor, 12, is, all the brothers admit, the best baseball player, and he loves the game. His parents started getting calls from the local baseball coaches asking why Victor had not signed up to play baseball during the summer. “When I asked Victor,” says Rick, “he said he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Chris during the summer before he went on his mission. I just said, ‘Wow, Victor, you’d do that for your brother?’” With so many boys in the family, the competition was sometimes less than brotherly. Chris and Matt, being close in age, suffered from it for a while. Anything Chris did, Matt tried to do better. It caused contention. Chris says, “Mom knew best. She had a talk with me. She said that God gave us all talents, and we can’t be better than someone else at everything. Then I realized that Matt has something in him that makes him better at some things. He has his talents, and I have mine. We need to share them and gain from each other and really enjoy watching each other do whatever. It might be soccer, band, sports, being outdoors, or giving service.” When Chris watched Matt compete at state in the pole vault, the sport he had taught his younger brother, the disappointment at not being there himself lessened. He felt calm. “I was glad one of us made it and that it could be my brother.” Editor’s Note: Since this article was written, Chris received his mission call and is serving in the Lithuania Vilnius Mission.

Only 5 percent of the people in Cambodia are Christians. A family in that country was searching for the truth. While their 11-year-old son was riding his bicycle he saw some men in white shirts and ties showing someone a picture and asking who it was. He felt he should stop. As he watched, he was prompted to say, “That is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and He came to save man.” Then he rode away. It took the missionaries a month to find him and his family. Today, the father is a counselor in the mission presidency.

My most tender meeting with Howard W. Hunter took place on October 3, 1963, as I entered the outer office of President David O. McKay, who had invited me to come and visit with him that Thursday afternoon—for what purpose I knew not at that time. Howard W. Hunter had been checking some matters with President McKay’s secretary. Brother Hunter and I greeted each other and shook hands. I noted the tears in his eyes with yet a smile on his lips and a catch in his voice. I did not understand why he was so emotional. After visiting with President McKay, where he extended to me my call to the Twelve, I understood. Howard W. Hunter had known why I was there that afternoon. He had been where I was now going. He had felt the feelings I was soon to experience.

During World War II, many cities in the United States enforced nightly blackouts to conserve fuel. In Salt Lake City the floodlights on the Salt Lake Temple were turned off. The temple stood dark in a dark city for years. When the ceasefire was declared in Europe, President Heber J. Grant ordered the floodlights of the temple turned back on.
For Christmas 1945, President George Albert Smith planned an inspiring and meaningful Christmas card. On the front was a photograph of the three eastern spires of the Salt Lake Temple beautifully lit against a dark blue background with the angel Moroni figure standing above. Across the bottom were the words “Christmas—1945” and the message “The lights are on again.”10 Nothing could have better reflected the joy felt by everyone after so many long years of death and destruction.
But this beautiful Christmas card was also President Smith’s way of bearing his testimony of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the gospel. Just as the end of the war brought peace and light in dark places, the Restoration of the gospel following the centuries-long Apostasy turned the bright lights of truth “on again” for all the people of the world.

The prophet Micah declared: “He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Micah 6:8). There is enough for a long sermon in that one command. Let me talk about one point only: “To love mercy.” As an example, may I read a paragraph from a letter I received from a young woman who is engaged in this kind of activity as president of the Relief Society.
Yesterday [she writes] I spent most of the day picking up welfare groceries and delivering them. One of the two cases I called on was tragic. She is a woman who, years ago, was in a fire and her head was badly injured. For years she has undergone constructive surgery and has a number of pins holding her scalp together. She is divorced, and in order to support herself and her four-year-old girl, she works doing any small job she can find, until she is through surgery and can return to school to complete her training as a dietician. She has no car and relies solely on her bicycle for transportation in this great and busy city. She has ridden that bike all winter, with her little girl on the back, sometimes going as many as 48 kilometers in a day to get to and from a small job.
A week ago she slid on a patch of ice while riding her bicycle, fell, struck her head, and suffered a concussion. She refused to go to the hospital because she had no money to pay medical bills, so she remained in her apartment, suffering from pain until her sister found her and got medical help. Her mother was able to assist her just a little. Her home teacher happened to call and discovered her plight. When I, as the Relief Society president, called her, I discovered she had no food in the house, no medication for her diabetes, and no money. So yesterday I went to deliver the groceries and take her some medication. What an opportunity to serve someone so desperately in need!

“I used to spend a lot of time with my friends,” says Orlando Irizarry, a cabinetmaker in Cabo Rojo, “but I felt something was missing from my life. I wondered what my wife, Irma, and I could give our three daughters that would be of lasting value. I began to pray about these feelings, and so when the missionaries came to our home, I felt as if I had been waiting for them and their message. Now the gospel brings joy into our lives, and my daughters have that which matters most.”

Speaking in a BYU devotional, Sister Neill Marriott shared that when she and her siblings were little growing up in Louisiana, their dad regularly promised his kids that if they were ready and waiting for him, he would take them swimming when he got home from work. At 5 p.m. on most summer afternoons, she and her brothers would stand on the hot cement, towels around their necks, looking earnestly down the street. She said, “Even the hot pavement couldn’t break our concentration—though sometimes we would jump back to the cool grass of the front yard for a moment, we would not shift our gaze from the far corner of the street.” When her dad’s car rounded the corner, they would cheer. Jumping up and down. Her dad would get out of the car, pulling his tie off, and say “I’ll be right back.” Soon he returned with his swimming suit and off they went to the pool. “[Now] why did three young kids stay so sharply focused? Why were we so certain we would get to go swimming?” Sister Marriott asked. “Because we knew our father.” [2]