Gospel Story Finder

Every call to serve is a human drama in the life of the recipient. I am certain that such has been the case with each of the Brethren who earlier today were sustained as new General Authorities. Let me share with you some marvelous lessons from the life of one of these Brethren, Jay E. Jensen, as recently reported in the Church News (“Spiritual Foundation Set Early in Life,” 8 Aug. 1992, pp. 6, 14).
Elder Jensen speaks of turning points in his life. His spiritual awakening began when he was a small boy growing up in Mapleton, Utah. His parents held family night long before it became a Church program. He recalled that his father read to him lessons from the Book of Mormon. His mother’s deep love for books also had a favorable impact on her son. However, it was when he read for himself Joseph Smith’s account of the First Vision that the witness of its truth became a reality.
Upon graduation from high school, young Jay and his sweetheart, Lona, decided to get married and not wait for a call to serve a mission. “It nearly broke my father’s heart,” Elder Jensen related. “Mother told me that Dad just wept.”
Two weeks later, and before wedding plans were finalized, Jay and Lona attended a sacrament meeting where a returned missionary reported his mission. The Spirit touched their hearts. They concluded to postpone marriage. Jay arose, went to the bishop’s office, and reported for missionary service. The rest is history. Jay served in the Spanish-American Mission.
Lona moved to California for employment and served a stake mission. Upon the completion of Jay’s mission, they were married in the Manti Temple. Elder Jensen’s father lived long enough to see his son serve an honorable mission and marry in the temple. Sister Jensen has often said that sending her husband-to-be on a mission was the hardest thing she ever did, but that it was the most rewarding. “I would never do it differently. We could never have been as happy otherwise.”
Today, Jay and Lona serve in Guatemala. He is a member of the Central America Area Presidency.

I grew up in what some of you might call a boring farming community: Virden, New Mexico, population 135. One summer night when I was a boy, my cousins, some friends, and I were looking for ways to create some excitement. Someone suggested we play a harmless prank on a neighbor. My conscience whispered it was wrong, but I didn’t have the courage to resist the enthusiastic response of the group.
After performing our mischievous act, we sprinted down the dark country road to make our escape, laughing and congratulating ourselves as we ran. Suddenly, one of the group stumbled, crying out, “Oh no, I kicked a cat!” Almost instantly we felt a very fine mist settle over us. It carried a horrible odor. What my friend thought was a cat was actually a skunk. It had sprayed us in self-defense. Very few odors are as nauseating as skunk spray, and we smelled terrible.
Dejectedly we went home in search of a little parental comfort for our pitiful plight. As we stepped inside the kitchen door, Mom took one sniff and shooed us out into the yard. We were cast out of our home. Then she launched the cleansing process. She burned our clothes. Then, it seemed that every home remedy or concoction in the community was volunteered in our behalf. Among them, we endured a variety of baths: first tomato juice, then cow’s milk, and even harsh homemade lye soap. But the stench remained. Even my dad’s powerful aftershave lotion could not overpower the stench. For days we were condemned to eat outside under a tree, sleep outdoors in a tent, and ride in the back of the pickup truck.
After a while, naively thinking the smell was gone, we tried to approach some normal-smelling girls. They would not allow us within yards, shattering our fragile teenage egos!
Now, I must admit that being sprayed by a skunk is not a common consequence of sin. Most consequences are not as immediate or dramatic. But sooner or later, for all sin, a consequence will be paid.
At times, consequences of sin may appear to be very subtle to the sinner. We may even convince ourselves, as we did before approaching the girls, that no one will be able to detect our sins and that they are well concealed. But always to our Heavenly Father and often to spiritually sensitive leaders, parents, and friends, our sins are glaringly apparent.
God has declared, “He that sinneth and repenteth not shall be cast out” (D&C 42:28). Just as my cousins and I were “cast out” of our earthly home as a consequence of our prank, we will be cast out of our Heavenly Father’s home if we do not repent.
“When we undertake to cover our sins,” as I tried to do with my dad’s aftershave lotion, “the heavens withdraw themselves; [and] the Spirit of the Lord is grieved” (D&C 121:37). We lose our spiritual gifts. The Lord has declared, “He that repents not, from him shall be taken even the light which he has received” (D&C 1:33).
Each one of us has the Light of Christ, or a conscience. It constantly prompts us to choose good. Good choices yield good consequences. On the other hand, delaying repentance and continuing to commit sin is like continuing to kick the skunk. The stench will become stronger with each sin, alienating us further and further from God and those we love. Soon we could become like Laman and Lemuel, who, after continually making bad choices, became “past feeling” and could no longer feel the “still small voice” (1 Nephi 17:45).
If I had responded to my conscience when it first whispered that the prank was wrong, I would have avoided the whole stinking ordeal.

Brother Artel Ricks tells an interesting story of an inspired Primary teacher. Artel was a little boy five or six years old. One night his family sat around the dinner table and talked about tithing. They told him “that tithing is one-tenth of all we earn and that it is paid to the Lord by those who love Him.”

He loved the Lord, and so he wanted to give the Lord his tithing. He went and got his savings and took one-tenth of his small savings. He says: “I … went to the only room in the house with a lock on the door—the bathroom—and there knelt by the bathtub. Holding the three or four coins in my upturned hands, I asked the Lord to accept them. [I was certain He would appear and take them from me.] I pleaded with the Lord for some time, but [nothing happened. Why would He not accept my tithing?]. As I rose from my knees, I felt so unworthy that I could not tell anyone what had happened. …

“A few days later at Primary, the teacher said she felt impressed to talk about something that was not in the lesson. I sat amazed as she then taught us how to pay tithing [to the bishop, the Lord’s servant]. But what I learned was far more important than how to pay tithing. I learned that the Lord had heard and answered my prayer, that He loved me, and that I was important to Him. In later years I came to appreciate still another lesson my Primary teacher had taught me that day—to teach as prompted by the Spirit.

“So tender was the memory of that occasion that for more than thirty years I could not share it. Even today, after sixty years, I still find it difficult to tell about it without tears coming to my eyes. The pity is that a wonderful Primary teacher never knew that through her, the Lord spoke to a small boy” (“Coins for the Lord,” Ensign, Dec. 1990, 47; “An Answer to Prayer,” Tambuli, May 1988, 28).

Last summer, our youngest son returned home from his mission to Warsaw, Poland. We missed him so much, but he learned things Sister Hobbs and I could not teach him at home. On the day he reported his mission, I could see how much he had matured. I was so glad he was home. I felt a little like our Heavenly Father must feel about us. He wants us to come home. Our salvation is His work and His glory. And Brothers and Sisters, we can trust Him for He knows how to do His work. (2 Nephi 27:21)

While serving as a missionary in the Philippines, I met Maria Jocelyn Castillo, or “Jocey,” as she was called.
We taught Jocey and her cousin Nestor the first discussion. The Spirit was strong, and Jocey agreed to read the Book of Mormon.
On our next visit, we found an excited Jocey and Nestor and about five additional people who were interested. On another visit, we taught another first discussion to Jocey’s sister Julie and some neighboring cousins.
The discussions went great. Jocey read all her assignments and started reading the Book of Mormon on her own. She soon committed to baptism. But as we got closer to her baptism, I could feel some concerns. I knew why. Jocey had only one leg and used a crutch to get around. She also wore a handkerchief on her head. On our third visit, we learned that Jocey had cancer and three years earlier had had her leg amputated. That had only slowed the disease. She started painful chemotherapy, and when her hair fell out, she wore a handkerchief on her head.
We hesitantly invited Jocey to attend church. I say “hesitantly” because Jocey lived about two miles from the church at the bottom of the biggest hill in the area. She had only one leg and not a lot of money for transportation; I really didn’t expect to see Jocey at church.
Sunday came, the meeting started, and 20 minutes later I saw Jocey and her cousin walk through the gate. I could see a wince of pain on Jocey’s face with each step. When she saw me, she smiled. I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. I thought of the times I had missed church because my head hurt or I was too tired. I thought of the sacrifice she was making to get to church.
Jocey never missed a Sunday. I knew the cancer was taking its toll as she coughed and tried to cover her pain. When her baptism day came, she told me she wasn’t ready. She wanted to be baptized, but she thought she would be embarrassed to remove her handkerchief with everyone watching. I said a quick prayer and was able to reassure her. She grabbed her change of clothes and a towel, smiled, and said thank you.
I’ve never felt the Spirit stronger than I did at her baptism. Jocey cried, and so did the others in attendance.
Jocey didn’t stop there. She helped the rest of her family, her next-door neighbors, and friends in their conversions. Finally, her mother joined the Church.
But Jocey’s cancer progressed quickly, and she moved on to the next life. It was hard for me to watch her die after becoming such close friends with her. Finally, I realized how blessed I had been to have been able to help this young woman become closer to the Savior.
On the day of the funeral, the members of her ward helped with the service, showing that great love King Benjamin talked about. As they lowered the casket into the grave, Jocey’s mother fainted and was unconscious for about 30 seconds. When she regained consciousness, she looked up and said softly, three times, “Alam ko kung nasaan na siya,” which in Tagalog means, “I know where she is now.” And she calmly walked away.
I learned from Jocey how important the Church is and how much light the gospel can bring to our lives and the lives of our families and friends. I will always remember Jocey.

By the time Domingos turned 18, his Church activity began to irritate his father.
“Dad thought seminary was getting in the way of my schoolwork, so he banned me from getting up early to go. I wanted to honor him, so I quit going. But I still did seminary at home. Then he didn’t want that either, so I put that away.
“Then he would find me reading my scriptures and think I hadn’t done my homework, even though my grades were good. One time he grabbed my scriptures and threw them in the rubbish bin. I had spent the last two years reading them and marking them, and they are really precious to me. The next morning I was able to get them back, but I had to give them to the branch president for safekeeping.”
It wasn’t long before Domingos’s father banned him from everything related to Church activity—scripture study, Mutual activities, home teaching, and, finally, Sunday meetings.
“Even though I was 18 and legally my own person, my first reaction was to obey. Really. You want to obey your father because he is your father. But I knew I couldn’t break my promise to Heavenly Father to attend church.
“Dad said if I went that Sunday, not to worry about coming back. So I packed my bags. My prayers were very sincere that night. The next morning, when he saw me dressed up, he was furious.”
Domingos left, but his parents came to the chapel and found him. They reached an agreement that he could attend every other Sunday. “I wasn’t happy with it, but it was better than nothing,” he says.
The next time he got ready for church, his father again told him that if he went, he could never return. “The second time was just as bad, probably worse. I’d been waiting to receive my patriarchal blessing, and the patriarch, who can come only about once a year, had come from far away. I got there for the appointment, but my father came at the same time. I had to go home and missed my blessing.”
The third time that his father confronted him in a similar way, Domingos left home and moved in with his grandmother. “Eventually my mum came and said my father was all right and wouldn’t get angry again. So I came back.”

You’re going to say I should have arranged housing in advance. But if I had, where would I be now?
After filling out a mountain of forms at registration, I drove around Provo looking for a place to stay. Finally I picked out one of the new apartment units near the campus. The office girl told me they had a vacancy in number 33.
The apartment complex is in the shape of a big C, with a swimming pool and frisby field in the middle. I walked across the lawn to number 33 and knocked on the screen door. Nobody came, although I could hear voices inside. I knocked again.
...
We finished the dishes and sat down around the kitchen table. I took out a sheet of notebook paper and wrote at the top "Operation Engagement."
"We’ll make a list of the things a fellow looks for in an LDS girl. First: testimony. Second: a nice face, a good figure. Third: common interests. Fourth: sense of humor. Fifth: a supporting attitude."
"Let’s go down the list," Cher said. "Testimony. I’ve got one, Tony. I really do."
"Okay," I said. putting down a check on the paper.
"Face." She held out her hand, rotating it to the right and then to the left in a gesture familiar to Easterners. "I don’t know. What do you think?"
"It’s very good. Like a Greek goddess. Do you have many cavities?"
"Our water had fluoride—53% fewer cavities."
I put a check beside "Face."
"Wait," she said, "except for the glasses."
"You have to see."
"I’ll get contact lenses."
"I like you the way you are."
"It’s not you we’re trying to impress," she said coolly. Then, quickly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t kind."
"No problem."
"Figure?"
I cleared my throat. "Fine."
"You don’t think I’m too skinny?"
"No, ma’am."
"Aren’t you going to say anything more about the figure?"
"No, ma’am."
"Do I dress modestly enough?"
"You dress like a lady."
"Maybe I should dress less modestly to get B.J.’s attention."
"If he noticed you that way, I’d punch him out."
"Okay. Common interests." she said.
"I think B.J.’s biggest interest is himself. So you have a common interest."
"You don’t know him very well. Be constructive."
"Okay," I replied. "Boys from the West are crazy about deer hunting. Do you know anything about deer hunting?"
"What’s there to know?" she asked.
"Do you know how to clean a deer?"
"Do they get dirty?"
"I will ignore that. Probably your biggest common interest is the Church. Maybe that’s enough. Let’s see, sense of humor."
"I don’t think B. J. has a sense of humor."
"If you marry him, you’re going to need one. A supporting attitude. That means you help him on his campaigns. Or you try to do nice things for him, like cooking his favorite food to show him that he’s special to you. You’re doing fine, Cher."
"Tony, there’s one other thing. I have some of that Eastern cynicism. I’m not like your average coed. Maybe I seem too cynical. I need to be more sincere." She wrote down another word at the bottom of the list, sincerity.
The next afternoon when I came in after my lab, she was already working on supper.
"Tony, look what I picked up in the bookstore today. You’re not going to believe this. It’s perfume in a time-release capsule. You just open this little pill and scatter the tiny beads on your hair with this little can. The beads are programmed. The aroma starts out kind of mild, but in about three hours it’s really something. I’m going to put some on."
She applied the contents of one of the small capsules.
"Do you want to smell?"
"In the interests of science," I said.
"Let’s see. It’s 4:30 now. We’ll eat at 6:00. So if I can get around B. J. by 7:00, I’ll give him the full dose."
She started peeling potatoes. I sat at the table and thumbed through a book I was supposed to be reading. The perfume did change aroma as time went on.
"I pick up my contact lenses on Monday, Tony. And I’ve really worked at being sincere. Look at me."
She was standing with her head up, looking at the ceiling.
"What are you looking at the ceiling for?"
"I’m looking at the clouds as the sun breaks through."
"We’re in a room. There are no clouds," I said.
"I know. But you’ve seen those movies where they close with someone looking at the clouds. Now that’s a sincere look, right? Well, I’ve got it, right?"
I stood up, grabbed a dish towel, and draped it over her sincere face.
...
"That’s really great, B.J.," Cher said as she leaned down by him, ostensibly to look at his appointment book but really to allow him a whiff of "T + Three Hours and Counting" perfume.
It was at that moment I realized I loved Cher and didn’t want her to be around B.J.
Monday when I came in, Cher had her contact lenses.
"So how do you like me now?"
"You can really see me?"
"Sure."
"But why are you crying?" I asked.
"My eyes are just watering a little. It’ll clear up once I get used to the lenses."
"I can’t even see them on you. Let me get a little closer." I moved very close to her and looked into her eyes.
"How’s that?" she asked.
"Fine."
"I mean, can you see them now?"
"I’ll have to get closer."
"That’s close enough," she said, moving away.
"Are they hard to take out?"
"Not at all. You just put your finger here on the corner of your eye and blink." She put her other hand below her eye, but the lens missed her hand and fell to the floor.
"Just stay there, Cher. I’ll look for it." I got down on my hands and knees and started looking for it. I soon found the small, green, plastic lens. "Cher, can you see anything?"
"No. Why?"
"Nothing." I put the lens in my shirt pocket.
"Cher, maybe if you get down and help look for it."
She got down on her hands and knees also. "I think we should both concentrate our efforts over here where you were when you dropped it." I moved over by her.
We looked and looked. Finally we decided to take it one tile at a time.
"Tony? You have your hand on top of my hand," she said, looking down at our hands.
"Oh, I do. Do you want me to move it, Cher?"
"I don’t know. I can’t decide."
"Cher, you are really good looking."
"With contacts, I’ll look better. Maybe that’s been my trouble all along."
"No, I mean with glasses, and without the time-release perfume, and without the forced sincere look. You are beautiful. You don’t need any improvement."
"No, I’m not beautiful."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I’m not," she insisted.
"Yes, you are."
"No, I’m not."
"Well, maybe not beautiful. But definitely pretty."
"So you don’t think I’m beautiful!"
"Yes, I do. But you wouldn’t accept it, so I figured I’d compromise. And Cher, you are sincere. In fact, you are just about the most sincere person I’ve ever met. Truly."
"Thank you. I try to be sincere. And Tony, you’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to without wondering what I’m supposed to say. With you I’m just myself."
"Cher, you have a nice hand."
"We shouldn’t be here alone like this."
"We’re not alone, Cher. Boris is on the couch, and Enrico is looking at the chalkboard."
"I know," she whispered, "but it’s like being alone."
"Cher, you are very special to me."
"I don’t want to hurt you, Tony."
"Who’s hurting? My knees are a little sore, that’s all."
"That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to fall in love with me."
"It’s too late. I already have. I want to marry you, and I’m asking you."
She started crying.
"If you want to wait before you give me an answer, that’s okay."
I got up to get her a box of tissues. When I returned, she was sitting on the chair in the kitchen. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and sat there.
"Tony, I really like you, but I’ve been thinking about B. J. for so long there’s no more room for anyone else in my heart. Can we be good friends?"
The next day I paid a visit to B.J.’s office in the Wilkinson Center. "B.J., I want to talk to you."
I told him about Cher and the way she felt about him. "The poor girl," he said. "I had no idea she felt so strongly about me."
"What are you going to do about it?" I asked him.
"I guess I’ll have to take my shirts to the cleaners and tell her to buzz off."
I slammed my hand down on his desk, breaking his plastic, desk name plate. "No, B.J., that’s not what you’re going to do. You’re going to take that girl out and try to fall in love with her. You are going to treat her like a queen, or some morning you’re going to wake up with your head shaved."
"Perhaps I should go out with her," he said quietly.
For the next several weeks, I stayed clear of Cher. I spent my late afternoons watching the Foucault pendulum swing, or listening to music, or taking long walks. Then I would go home around 8:00 and eat whatever was left. Cher was cooking for B. J. now. She made homemade wheat bread, beef stew, meatloaf—the things that B. J. liked.
It was especially bad when I knew they were going out, and I stayed away from campus for fear I’d see them together. Every couple seen from a distance looked like them. Every time I saw a girl with her head on some boy’s shoulder, I got cold chills. I wished I had never met her.
One weekend B. J. took Cher home with him to meet the family. That was the Saturday I ran. I got up early and put on sweat pants and sweat shirt and drove out to a country road. After parking the car I started running. Soon there was just the road, the pain in my side, and the crunch of my feet against the gravel. But the pain in my mind diminished as the pain in my side increased. So I kept on. Finally I collapsed on the side of the road. It was a long time before I could make myself get up and walk back to the car.
A couple of weeks later B. J. had to go to a conference of student leaders in New Mexico. That Tuesday night I entered the apartment at 8:00 expecting to see the usual empty kitchen with a plate of food in the refrigerator.
Cher was in the kitchen cooking. "I thought you were never coming," she said. "Sit down and get started."
She sat down across from me, and we said the blessing.
We got through the salad in silence. Removing the salad plate, she replaced it with a plate of lasagna and garlic bread.
"Why are you cooking with B. J. gone?"
"I get paid to cook here, remember?"
"But why did you wait for me? I’m two hours late."
"Your name Tony Versalino? Of Italian ancestry? You like Italian food?"
"Yes."
"That’s what it means."
"Cher?"
"Item five, a supporting attitude. ‘Like cooking his favorite food.’"
I put down my fork and held her hand. "What about B.J.?"
"He was a dream in my mind for all those years, but a dream with no reality. Besides, it finally occurred to me that it wasn’t necessary for all members of the Church to walk and talk and live like they came from Panguitch, Provo, or Parowan. I can’t fit the Utah-Mormon mold. I like the East, and I want to go back and help the Church grow there."
"You mean, the West is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there?" I caught the aroma of her perfume in the last stages of its time-release cycle. "Lady, what you need is a nice Mormon boy from Pennsylvania."
"I don’t want to push you, Tony."
"I’m your man."
"You know what Daddy is going to say?" Cher said. "‘Queens? He’s from Queens? I send you by plane across the country, you live in a desert for years, and you find a husband from Queens? For Queens, I could pay subway fare. Now you tell me you want to get married in a temple in Utah? We got plenty of temples in New York, and I know a rabbi …’"
For dessert we had a dish of Italian ice.

Just to illustrate this, one day when President Cowley and I were traveling, we arrived at the home of Brother Stewart Meha, a great and wonderful Maori man. He was in every way a pure patriarch. He had never been ordained a patriarch—he just was one, and he presided over his large family as a true father and leader. President Cowley and Brother Meha spent all afternoon sitting on the porch just talking about the Church and other interesting things. I listened to them part of the time and then visited with the kids and others who lived in this little area near Brother Meha’s home. Incidentally, there were two or three other homes in this little Maori village, but I discovered that most of the people living there belonged to his family. They were his children and his grandchildren.

When it came time for the evening meal, Brother Meha stood on his front porch and, in the Maori language, shouted out to all of his large family, “Haere Mai Ki Te Kai.” Then he said, “Haere Mai Ki Te Karakia.” This simply meant “Come on home for supper” and “Come on home for prayer.” Soon family members came from every direction. We all assembled in his home in the big front room. This room had very little furniture in it, and everybody gathered in a large circle. Brother Meha was at the head of the circle and on his left was President Cowley. I was next to the president. On Brother Meha’s right was a little child about eight years of age. All around the rest of the circle were the other children with some adults in between.

Finally Brother Meha said to the little boy on his right, “You start.” I bowed my head in anticipation of the little boy’s prayer. Instead of praying, he quoted a scripture, after first reciting the chapter and verse. Then the young person next to him gave a scripture with the reference. After about four scriptures had been given, I realized that we were going around the circle with each person quoting a different passage of scripture. One youngster started to quote one that had already been used, and he was quickly corrected. I immediately began to think of a scripture that I could quote when my turn came.

I had been in the mission field just a little over a year and had mastered two wonderful passages of scripture. I mentally polished up my first scripture and had no sooner silently rehearsed it than one of the young people gave that exact scripture. This, of course, slowed me down for a minute, but I thought I was okay because I still had one in reserve. I worked a little on it, only to hear someone directly across from me quote it. I then became panicky as I realized I could not think of another scripture I could give. My turn was coming closer and closer, and I felt tension building up within me. My mind went totally blank.

In my moment of greatest concern, President Cowley nudged me with his elbow and, out of the side of his mouth, said, “Quick—tell me a scripture. I can’t think of a single one to say.” I then realized that the two of us were in the same desperate situation. At that moment it was my turn. I bravely said the first article of faith. President Cowley followed by quoting the second article of faith, and then Brother Meha prayed. I think that night he prayed for the mission president and the missionaries a little more than usual. When the prayer was finished, a little boy about eight years of age came over to us and said, “I guess you two guys don’t know that the Articles of Faith are not allowed in our scripture study.”

Now, brothers and sisters, that was an excellent example to me of family prayer and how children can be taught the scriptures. If we would just gather together and have prayer, it would probably be the finest teaching experience that a mother and father could give to their children.

One day while Elder LeGrand Richards was Presiding Bishop of the Church, he met a young boy carrying a large odd-shaped pumpkin. Bishop Richards asked the boy what he planned to do with it.
“I’m going to give it to my bishop as tithing on the crop I have raised all by myself,” the boy replied.
Bishop Richards asked the boy’s name and then talked with him about the blessings that come to us as we pay our tithing because we are sharing with others.
A few days later as Bishop Richards was leaving the regional storehouse in Salt Lake City, he saw an old couple loading their small wagon with supplies from the storehouse. Looking more closely, Bishop Richards saw the boy’s pumpkin in their wagon. Its large size and odd shape made it easily recognizable.
Imagine the boy’s surprise when a short time later he received a letter from Bishop Richards telling him of the joy his pumpkin had brought to this grateful couple. They now had something special for their holiday dinner because a young boy was happy to pay his tithing.

Klarie dribbled hard and fast down the court. This is it, she thought. The tallest, fastest girl on the team had been guarding Klarie the whole game. But now she was guarding someone else. This was Klarie’s chance!
She quickly spun away from another player and set her feet. Then she jumped and took her shot. The ball sailed through the air as Klarie held her breath. Please go in.
The ball swished through the net.
Klarie’s team members gave her high fives. Then Coach Garcia looked down at the timer and blew her whistle. “And that’s the end of practice! Good job, everyone! I’ll see you all tomorrow. Make sure to rest up because we’ll be doing a lot of sprints.”
Klarie groaned and walked over to gather her stuff. Then she saw Coach Garcia waving her over.
“Hey, Klarie,” she said. “Good job today. I know you work really hard in practice, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Klarie said with a big smile.
She was still smiling as she walked out to her mom’s car. As they drove home, she replayed her last shot in her head. Especially the swish of the ball through the net. She hardly even noticed the conference talk Mom was listening to.
But then something caught her attention. The speaker said, “We must take time to actively exercise our faith.”* The words “actively exercise” sounded like something she would hear at basketball practice. How do you exercise faith? she thought. Do you run with faith? Or dribble faith like a ball?
Klarie turned to Mom. “How do you exercise faith?” she asked.
Mom smiled. “How do you get better at basketball?”
“I practice,” Klarie said. “My coach tells me how to get better. And when we do drills, I try really hard to do them right.”
“Is it easy?”
“No!” Klarie said, remembering how tired her legs felt after sprints. “I have to practice a lot.”
Mom nodded. “Heavenly Father wants us to have faith in Him, but we have to work on it. He gave us ways to practice and get better.”
“Like what?”
“He asks us to talk to Him in prayer. He’s kind of like our coach. He gives us scriptures. They’re like His playbook. And He gives us families to help us. Our family is like—”
“Like our team!” Klarie interrupted.
“Exactly! Our family team works and practices together,” Mom said. “And what happens when you go to practice, Klarie?”
“I get better,” she said. She thought of how good it felt to make her final shot after working hard in practice for weeks.
“That’s right. When we practice spiritual habits, like prayer, we’re exercising our faith. That helps our testimonies get stronger. And it makes us happier.”
Klarie had never thought of faith like that. She had heard faith was like a seed. But she’d never known it could be like playing basketball! She thought about how her coach made practice plans for their team. Maybe I can make a practice plan too, she thought, but for faith! As soon as she got home, she found a big notepad and started writing:
Prayer—morning and night
Scripture study—every day
Church—every Sunday
Maybe exercising faith wasn’t exactly like practicing basketball. But practice was practice. She felt warm and happy inside as she looked at her plan. She trusted Heavenly Father and knew He would help her!
See Primary manual, pages 121–122, 126–127; family manual, page 123.

In San Antonio, Texas, I met a man who had married a faithful Latter-day Saint girl. He was not a member of the Church, and they made an agreement that they would not discuss or argue about religion. His wife was true to her commitment, but shortly after they were married the missionaries came calling. He remained true to his commitment and didn’t argue or complain, and the missionaries just kept coming. He went through so many sets of missionaries he lost count. Three years went by, but he still remained indifferent to the gospel. He was a good man; he was just not willing to expend the faith necessary to believe.

One evening he came home from work, and his wife said, “The missionaries are coming tonight.”
He thought to himself, “Oh, no. Not again! Haven’t I been through this enough already?”
But that night was different. An older stake missionary was with the elders, and as they began the lesson, he said to this man, “It’s time you joined the Church. You need to make the decision now!”
And he heard himself saying, “I know. You’re right. It is time.”
As he said those words, he felt a powerful confirmation of the Spirit and knew it was true.
He later said to me, “I really didn’t know until that moment, but then I knew with a confirmation that I could not deny.” His one step of faith into darkness opened the door to the confirming Spirit.

There are other “lost battalions” comprised of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, who have, through thoughtless comment, isolated themselves from one another. An account of how such a tragedy was narrowly averted is this occurrence in the life of a lad we shall call Jack.
Throughout Jack’s life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day, when Jack was seventeen, they had a particularly violent one. Jack said to his father: “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I shall never return.” So saying, he went to the house and packed a bag. His mother begged him to stay, but he was too angry to listen. He left her crying at the doorway.
Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him: “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.”
Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat in the bus watching the miles go by, he commenced to think about the words of his father. He began to realize how much love it had required for him to do what he had done. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and had left the words ringing in the summer air, “I love you.”
It was then that Jack realized that the next move was up to him. He knew that the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket to home and went back.
He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, and turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head in his hands. As he looked up and saw Jack, he rose from the chair and they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack often said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”
We could say here was a boy who overnight became a man. Here was a father who, suppressing passion and bridling pride, rescued his son before he became one of that vast “lost battalion” resulting from fractured families and shattered homes. Love was the binding band, the healing balm. Love—so often felt; so seldom expressed.

I think movies and film can bring great power. I feel it gets hard to find wholesome content sometimes. I decided to make a short film that would inspire and uplift people. I called it “You Are Great.” It’s about a man who’s sad and is able to feel better by doing service for people. God wants us to stay clean. If you watch things that remind you of the Savior, it will bring the Spirit into your life.
Garrett L., 20, Colorado, USA

His new friend, Peter McLean, had already had some hard things happen to him. His father had died, lost at sea while fishing. Peter; his sisters, Lilika and Lei; and his mother, Hainite, were left alone. Peter admits that he struggled. His aunt had persuaded him to attend Saineha High School, the LDS-sponsored school, but he felt out of place and skipped classes regularly. The principal and teachers were patient and kept encouraging him to return. Then he met Ifoni, and his life began to change.

Recently at a stake conference a young man was called to the pulpit with only a few moments’ notice. He said he had been away to school and had come home to find a very dear friend in trouble. She had become enmeshed in the drug scene and had been tragically hurt. The young man sought the Lord in prayer, crying out for strength to help his friend. “For the first time in my life I truly forgot myself,” he said. “While I prayed I came to a consciousness I had never before possessed. My concern for her was honest and intense and without self-reference, and I knew as I prayed that the love and concern of Almighty God for me and for my friend were pure and real and very personal.”

Several years ago I was attending an institute class at the University of Utah, and I heard Elder Marion D. Hanks, Assistant to the Council of the Twelve, tell of this experience. He said one afternoon about sunset he was traveling east on North Temple. As he approached the intersection of Main Street at North Temple, there was a car stopped at the traffic light. As he pulled up behind the car, his foot slipped from the brake and hit the accelerator, and he hit the car. Well, he was very embarrassed about it and was about to get out of his car when there emerged from the automobile a mountain, a giant of a man. “So,” he said, “I stayed in my own automobile. The next five minutes I received the most vulgar, most vile, the most wicked tongue-lashing I have ever received in my life. After he was through mauling me verbally, he got back in his automobile and sped away. I thought I had just met the worst man in the world. Certainly such vocabulary I’d never heard since my days in the service.” Elder Hanks thought about this a great deal. And he was greatly concerned about such a person running loose in the streets of Salt Lake City.

About two or three weeks later Elder Hanks was at a stake conference in the Salt Lake Valley. Seated on the stand, he was looking down at the congregation. Lo and behold, there was his vulgar, vile friend. Well, after the stake conference this good brother came up to the stand and asked Elder Hanks if he could have a few words with him. They went into another room, just the two of them, and this good brother apologized, asked for Elder Hanks to forgive him. He said, “Do you know, two or three weeks ago there on the street I made this great scene. I’m very sorry and very embarrassed, and I apologize for the language I used and the embarrassment I caused you. But you know, I was sitting in my automobile, waiting for the light to change and contemplating the events that had just transpired in my life in the past hour or so. I was on the way home from the hospital to tell our four small children that their dear mother and my beloved wife and sweetheart had just passed away. My entire world had just caved in, and I was sitting there contemplating all of these things—the gloom and despair of my life—when you hit into the back of my car. So I ask your forgiveness.”

“Well,” Brother Hanks said, “if I could have found a crack I would have crawled into it.” “There,” Elder Hanks explained later, “I had made a man an offender for a word. On the basis of a few moments’ exposure or experience with this man I had literally condemned him. Indeed, I was the one who needed to plead for forgiveness.”

Long years ago a severe drought struck the Salt Lake Valley. The commodities at the storehouse on Welfare Square had not been their usual quality, nor were they found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. As a young bishop, worrying about the needs of the many widows in my ward, I said a prayer one evening that is especially sacred to me. I pleaded that these widows, who were among the finest women I knew in mortality and whose needs were simple and conservative, had no resources on which they might rely.
The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business situated in our ward. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted, and then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed.
The wife of that generous businessman became a widow herself. I know the decision her husband and she made brought her sweet memories and comforting peace to her soul.

Earlier this year, I was provided with an exciting yet humbling opportunity to help my little sister, Oceane, progress on the covenant path by accepting the invitation to be baptized and fulfill one of the prescribed requirements to enter the celestial kingdom. She postponed her baptism one month, until I was ordained a priest, to give me the privilege to perform the ordinance, while our other sisters were also privileged to work under priesthood assignment and stand as witnesses. As we stood on opposite sides of the font and prepared to enter the water, I noticed her excitement, as it matched mine. And I felt united with her, seeing that she was making the right decision. This opportunity to exercise the priesthood required me to be more careful and less casual in my gospel living. In order to prepare, I went to the temple every day that week, supported by my mom, grandma, and sister, to perform baptisms for the dead.
This experience taught me a lot about the priesthood and how I could exercise it worthily. I know that all priesthood holders can feel the same things I felt if we follow Nephi’s example to “go and do” (see 1 Nephi 3:7). We cannot sit idly and expect the Lord to use us in His great work. We must not wait for those who need our aid to seek us out; it is our duty as priesthood holders to exemplify and stand as witnesses of God. If we are making decisions that inhibit us from our eternal progression, we must change now. Satan will try his hardest to keep us in a carnal state of seeking simple pleasures. But I know that if we put in the effort, find those who will support us, and repent each day, the resulting blessings will be incredible and our lives will be forever changed as we press forward on the covenant path.

One Sunday morning at church, in the rented meeting hall where our branch met, I overheard a conversation about a name that sounded familiar. Someone mentioned a man named President Gurr, the former branch president. I asked about him and learned that he and his family had moved to Idaho a few years earlier. His daughters were the girls I remembered from school. Even though I hadn’t known either of them well, their example of strength and courage had impressed me. They had truly shone forth by choosing to be true to their religion and living righteously.

After serving a mission to Sweden, I moved to Provo to attend BYU. I worked part time at the MTC. One day I passed a young woman in the hall who looked familiar. I glanced at her nametag and saw that her name was Sister Gurr. I was surprised to see Lisa, the former cheerleader from my high school! I stopped her and told her who I was, and she was equally surprised. I then thanked her for living true to her standards and keeping her covenants at that party so long ago. She was truly a wonderful example and affected my life for good by staying true to who she was and what she believed.

The compact omnibus speedily wound its way up the winding switchbacks of the El Alto road leading out of the main city of La Paz, Bolivia. I sat on the edge of my seat, aware of nothing other than my thoughts. “What will I say? How can he be persuaded to do the right thing?” I asked myself, as the bus bounced around another curve in the worn cobblestone road. I then peered intently through the window at my right toward the mud streets and houses we swiftly passed, as if I could find an answer in the dirty, yet somehow serene surroundings. I had been given an urgent assignment to work that afternoon with one of our native Bolivian missionaries, Elder Sanchez.
Arriving in Elder Sanchez’s area, I stepped off the bus and walked determinedly to the corner apartment of a dirt-colored adobe house. Elder Sanchez stood apprehensively in the doorway of the small apartment to meet me. I sensed a look of concern in his face as I approached and we shook hands.
Elder Sanchez was not just an ordinary Bolivian, though his features were typical—a staunch 5 feet tall, jet-black hair, dark, intense eyes, and a deep brown complexion. His shoulders were broad and muscular from the year he had spent as a construction missionary before his proselyting mission. This missionary was a special Bolivian—a Lamanite called to serve his own people.
Elder Sanchez was the only member of the Church in his family, and they did not fully understand why he had to dedicate himself in such a manner to his religion. He was also somewhat older than the average missionary, and his family felt that he should be completing his education at this important time. These pressures had weighed heavily on Elder Sanchez, and at times he felt the burden was too great. Possibly he would be more of a positive influence were he with his family. These questions had to be dealt with immediately.
Ducking to fit through the small doorway, I followed Elder Sanchez into the dimly lit room—a typical missionary apartment. The furnishings were the standard items: two identical, well-worn beds, which sagged terribly in the middle; three or four new copies of the Libro de Mormón stacked on a small table in the center of the room, and several tracting pamphlets and Church books nearby. We sat on the edge of one of the beds and reviewed the plan for the afternoon’s work. We knelt together on the bare brick floor, and Elder Sanchez offered prayer. Silently I pled in my heart with the Lord: “Please help Elder Sanchez. Help him to realize just what he should do.” He had to stay—he was vital to the program. We paused briefly at the conclusion of the prayer and looked each other in the eye. We shook hands and rose to leave.
We left the apartment and talked about prospective converts and investigators as we walked down the unpaved dirt road toward the proselyting area we would be working in. I could sense that although Elder Sanchez was a little nervous about our visit, he wanted to talk. Trying to concentrate on cheerful and positive events in the mission, I complimented Elder Sanchez and his companion on the work they were doing, for things did appear to be going well for them.
We turned from the road onto a well-worn pathway that twisted its way up a small hillside. At the top we stopped to rest and catch our breath. The sun was bright and warm, yet a gentle breeze made things cool and refreshing. From the crest of the hill we looked down upon the streets and houses of the community below. The adobe structures all were roofed with sheets of rippled tin, which reflected the bright sunlight like giant mirrors. These were familiar sights to me now. I thought about how I had gone through struggles with the language, adjusting to the customs, and learning how to love these people. Elder Sanchez had not had to go through any of these changes. He knew the language, including the Aymara dialect. He knew the customs; he knew humility; he knew the language of the Lamanite heart.
We continued along the path. The top of the hill leveled into a long, narrow plateau. The other side of the plateau dropped vertically at the edge into a deep and wide ravine. At the bottom of the canyon was a small stream, polluted by garbage and other refuse that people had thrown over the side of the gulch. The stench that rose from the pollution made me shudder, and I breathed through the material of my suit sleeve to try to filter the air. This was one of the poorest areas of the city, and it was evident.
Our pathway ran parallel to the ledge of the ravine, and I scanned the scene below as we walked. In the distance was an ancient-looking railroad bridge that crossed the canyon. The path we followed appeared to pass near it.
Elder Sanchez opened up more as we talked about his family and his missionary calling. He was confused about who to listen to and who to rely on for direction. There were so many pressures!
Suddenly my concentration was interrupted as the pathway crossed an old pair of worn railroad tracks. My heart jumped as Elder Sanchez abruptly turned to follow the railroad tracks instead of continuing on the pathway. I stopped. The old railroad bridge was directly in front of us! My heart began pounding as I realized what was happening. I reached for Elder Sanchez’s arm and beckoned him to stop. “Are we going to cross the bridge?” I asked. He shrugged and replied simply, “Yes.”
I paused. “Isn’t there some other route we could take?” I began to perspire as I looked past Elder Sanchez to the canyon and the bridge. Elder Sanchez walked toward the bridge and replied, “This is the shortest way.” Unwilling to confess my fear of heights, I silently tried to muster courage.
I followed my companion to the edge of the canyon and stopped, stretching my neck to look over the edge. The bottom of the gully was several hundred feet below. My confidence evaporated, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I swallowed hard as I studied the bridge. Although it was still in use, it was very old and in poor condition. There was nothing above the rails to aid in crossing—no hand or guard rail, no supports, no girders—nothing at all. The iron rails rested on greasy, black, wooden ties, old and worn from use and cracked from the weather. I looked up at Elder Sanchez—he was already halfway across.
A silent prayer rose from my heart as I braced myself and carefully placed my foot exactly in the middle of the first tie. Then ever so slowly, the second, then the third. Slowly, I moved away from the solid ground. Through the gaps between the ties I could see the ground far below. I seemed to lose my equilibrium and my muscles tightened. I tried to relax and concentrate completely on the ties, avoiding as much as possible the view between the spaces. As I developed a rhythm, each step became easier and smoother.
I proceeded slowly and steadily ahead. One by one the ties moved under me, until I had stepped on each one in the bridge. I leaped from the last step onto solid ground, smiling with pride and relief as my fright turned into exuberance. My heart was still pounding as I joined Elder Sanchez, who had been watching and waiting patiently for me on the other side. With pride in my step we continued together.
Elder Sanchez and I spent the rest of the day tracting and visiting families. For a time, we became so involved in the proselyting work that our concern for the original problem was completely forgotten. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to set behind the distant Andes mountains as we finally directed our steps back toward the apartment. In near desperation I reviewed all that Elder Sanchez and I had talked about during the day. So far I had only been able to listen to Elder Sanchez’s feelings about his situation. I had not been able to offer any convincing suggestions. There seemed to be no conclusions. I searched for the key. Surely Elder Sanchez had problems that would be resolved with patience and faith. The Lord understood his problems, and he would help. We needed Elder Sanchez; the people needed Elder Sanchez; and the Lord needed Elder Sanchez. He was vital to the program! Surely he would sense he must stay.
Suddenly my concentration was shattered as we rounded a corner, and there in front of us again lay the railroad tracks! Panic-stricken, I searched down the rails, and in the distance it loomed—the bridge. Body and mind reacted instinctively. My knees and legs went weak, and my stomach began to tighten again. My heart began to pound quickly. We continued forward. To maintain composure, I tried to be logical: “I’ve done this once,” I thought. “Why not again?” But fear answered: “It’s impossible!” My chances of being able to cross again were too slim! Yet we approached the bridge, and Elder Sanchez again started out in front of me.
Repeating positive phrases and words of encouragement to myself, I reoffered my silent prayer and started out. Step by step, slowly and surely, I tried to follow the same process as before. Again confidence grew with each step. Again I was on my way.
I was near the halfway point on the bridge, concentrating on steady rhythm, when I heard voices—then footsteps. I cautiously stopped and slowly looked up. I froze. In front of me was the largest Bolivian woman I had ever seen in my time as a missionary. The woman was coming directly toward me, and her steady pace clearly indicated who was to make room for whom. I was stunned. I painstakingly lifted my right foot and placed it on the portion of the tie extending several inches to the outside of one rail. I kept my left foot firmly planted on the inside of the rail for balance. I strained to make enough room for her to pass by. Uncontrollably I glanced down over the edge of the bridge to the bottom of the ravine. The stream of water trickled and wound through the debris far below. I felt myself begin to gently sway. Quickly I looked back to the rails.
The woman approached and moved past me. Her long full skirts brushed me gently, and I leaned as far forward into the bridge as I could. But there was another small figure directly behind the woman I had not noticed before—a slender eight-or nine-year-old girl. She clutched her mother’s full skirts with tightly clenched fists. As they both moved past, tears ran down the little girl’s brown cheeks, and she cried out to the woman, “Mamá, tengo temor! ¿Qué hago?¡Tengo temor!” (“Mother, I’m scared! What do I do? I’m scared!”) The old woman merely kept her steady pace, eyes fixed directly ahead, and replied in her native tongue, “Mírame a mí, hija. No mires hacia abajo, sino mírame a mí.” (“Look at me, dear. Don’t look down, just look at me.”)
I stood motionless and watched mother and daughter continue across the bridge. As if a wave of warm air had blown about me, all fear left and inspiration came. I stood in reverence as I realized the simplicity of the answer to Elder Sanchez’s questions. Just as the wise Indian mother had counseled her daughter, I seemed to hear in my mind, “Keep your eye on the prophet.” “Look to the Brethren.” “Come, follow me.”
I looked across the bridge to the other side where Elder Sanchez stood. The affirmation of the Spirit came to me, and I knew what Elder Sanchez must come to understand. Although he was fearful and uncertain, he had received a call from the Lord through his prophet; there was no question about what he should do. With childlike faith he had to look to Him, not look down—keep his eye on Him, and he too would cross the bridge.