Gospel Story Finder

About a year ago, I woke up in a trailer someplace in Illinois, full of drugs and alcohol, and I didn’t remember anything I’d done. I remembered only that on my business trip, as soon as the plane landed, it took me all of about 10 minutes to ditch my colleague, go straight to the bar, and disappear for three days. The second day—the day I was supposed to fly home—was my daughter’s birthday. Just a year ago.
A year ago Mark (names have been changed) didn’t know how he would overcome his addiction to drugs and alcohol. He had already tried to quit. He had visited with his bishop, been to professional counselors, gone through rehabilitation centers, and exerted all the willpower he could, but nothing brought permanent change. Soon after that critical moment in Illinois, he found the Church’s 12-step addiction recovery program, sponsored by LDS Family Services. In the program, he found the principles and direction that would change his life.
The change occurred as he studied and applied the principles taught in the program workbook and weekly recovery meetings. The workbook guides readers toward recovery using 12 steps, each of which addresses an essential principle of recovery such as honesty, hope, or trust in God. At the weekly meetings, participants are able to gain strength from others and share their own experiences of applying the principles.
Mark learned that the journey from addiction to recovery is a difficult one, but knowing people who have already made that journey can give hope to those who struggle. At each meeting a facilitator—someone who has experienced recovery—encourages others by sharing insights based on his or her own recovery. Mark is now a facilitator. Each week he shares his experiences (included in this article in italics) to help others understand that they are not alone and that addiction can be overcome.
After each time I gave in, I would say, “This time is going to be different. Please, Lord, help me. I don’t want this to be a part of my life.” Yet it continued to be.
An oft-repeated phrase among program participants is that an individual seeks recovery “when the pain of the problem becomes greater than the pain of the solution.” When Mark reached that point, he took a friend’s suggestion and came to a Latter-day Saint addiction-recovery meeting. Some people decide on their own to come. Others are encouraged to attend by friends or priesthood leaders. Some have been ordered by a court of law to attend 12-step recovery meetings.
Working the steps of this program simplified the gospel in a way that I could apply the testimony I had always had.
As Mark discovered, the steps of the addiction recovery program are a systematic way of implementing gospel principles. The 12 steps are adapted from the original Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, but the Church’s program is unique because it puts the steps into “a framework of the doctrines and beliefs of the Church.”1 In the addiction recovery program, the 12 steps are actually steps to accessing the power of the Atonement.
The change that has happened to me is I’m not miserable all the time. Sometimes it’s not easy. Perhaps the Lord doesn’t see fit to take it all from me right now, but He strengthens me so I can bear it patiently and cheerfully, and I can progress. He lightens it just enough that I learn the most that I can.
In the past I was able to abstain for periods of time. I’d get myself back in good standing with the Church and serve in callings, and everyone would tell me how great I was. But I didn’t feel great on the inside at all. And that’s why abstaining is just one part of it. True recovery is not doing it and not wanting to do it because our nature is changed.
Every day I seek my Heavenly Father in prayer and through the scriptures. In the morning I read books about recovery, and I write my feelings and my impressions. I call a support person in the program to help clarify my thinking. I go to the meetings. I try to serve. And I have never relapsed on a day that I have done those things.
Those daily tasks keep Mark spiritually well. Others who have been through the program have discovered the same truth: maintaining spiritual strength requires continuous effort. No one is completely safe from relapse, but through daily gospel living, those who struggle with addiction come unto Christ and receive strength and hope.
“I’m learning bit by bit, precept upon precept,” says Mark. “My nature is changing, and it’s the first time since this started that I can say I have hope. I truly believe that I never have to relapse again.”

When Mom and Dad said we’d be living in a one-room cabin in Nauvoo this summer, I wasn’t excited about being so close with my family. But we’d be performing in the City of Joseph pageant, which sounded fun, so I thought I’d give it a try.
On opening night, as I looked at the performers in their 1840s costumes, I felt a oneness with my Nauvoo ancestors. How real they seem to me now. Lots of people have told us how the pageant has touched them, too.
Tonight our family won an award from the director for working so well together. I guess it’s not so bad to be close as a family!

Evan Payne owned and operated a gasoline and auto repair station in Thousand Oaks, California. He was quick with a smile and even quicker to remember people’s names. He knew his customers, their children, and their cars. Evan worked long hours, six days a week, and was genuinely interested in helping people. He gave jobs to teenagers who had family problems or who were preparing for or returning from missions. He would stay late or arrive early to accommodate a customer. Nearly everyone in town knew Evan Payne and liked him.
Evan was also busy at home and at church. He and his wife, Becky, had five children, ages 7 to 13. He had served twice as a counselor in the bishopric, as bishop, and now as a counselor in our stake presidency.
Evan was young, athletic, happy, and outgoing. He had dark hair and a handsome face. He loved to ski and play Church softball and basketball. So it didn’t seem possible when I heard that Evan had leukemia.
In the months following his diagnosis there were family, ward, and stake fasts. Evan went through chemotherapy and radiation. When Evan’s illness did not go into remission, his brothers were tested to determine if they could be bone marrow donors. None matched. He and Becky got their affairs in order and prepared for the worst, but in spite of the pain Evan remained upbeat and positive. He continued to work nearly every day, although he was clearly suffering.
One day my office phone rang. “Joel,” Evan said, “what are you doing tonight? I want you to come with me to give a blessing to someone in your ward. Can you do it?”
“Sure,” I said. “Who are we going to bless?”
“Sally Carlisle (names have been changed). She is an elderly lady from San Diego. She is in town visiting her daughter, Joan Wilson, who isn’t active. I should be taking the Wilsons’ home teacher, but I don’t know who it is, and she needs a blessing right away. Can you pick me up?”
I had a sudden sinking feeling, and a wave of guilt flooded over me. For many months I had been assigned to home teach the Wilson family, but I had not even called them. Numerous times I had intended to call or stop by, but each time I rationalized my way out. I had not done my duty. I told Evan I would pick him up at 7:00.
As we drove Evan explained that the Wilsons had been customers at his service station for many years. Joan had been raised in the Church but had drifted into inactivity as a young adult. She had married Mike Wilson, who was not a member of the Church, and they had raised their four boys in Mike’s religion. Evan explained that we would be giving a blessing to Joan’s mother, who had the flu. Joan had called Evan at the station and asked him to come. He was the only member of the Church she knew.
When we arrived at the Wilson home, Joan greeted us at the door but excused herself while we visited with her mother. Sally explained how much she wanted her daughter to come back to the Church and how she prayed for Mike and Joan to be able to receive the blessings of the gospel. After we visited for a few minutes, I anointed Sally and Evan blessed her. It was a simple blessing of comfort and good health.
As I drove Evan home, I felt grateful to have witnessed that priesthood blessing. I was also grateful for the introduction to the Wilson family and for spending those moments with Evan Payne, who passed away just a few months later.
In the following years I visited the Wilson home regularly. They welcomed me and remembered me as Evan’s friend. At first we just talked about Evan and what a great power for good he had been in our community. I remained the Wilsons’ home teacher for 15 years, and I tried to be like Evan and help whenever I could. Mike and Joan became my good friends and blessed my life in return.
Although Joan did not return to activity and Mike did not join the Church, I will always treasure their love and friendship. I was serving as bishop when Joan passed away. At the time of her death, Mike donated a large sum to the ward missionary fund. That money supported a missionary from our ward who joined the Church as a teenager and had no family resources to allow him to serve. Mike’s contribution indirectly touched the lives of the many converts that young elder taught.
Although I am certain Evan Payne did not intend to teach me any lessons that night many years ago, I learned that it is no burden to be about the Lord’s business. I try to be, as Evan was, truly interested in and concerned for our Heavenly Father’s children. And as a home teacher I try to be as faithful as Evan was and as the Savior would want me to be.

As a young mother, I felt strongly that my husband and I should take our son to church. Although we had never discussed religion, we both believed in God. So I prayed, infrequently at first, that God would help me to know which church to attend.
When our first child was four years old, we had another son. I still didn’t know which church to join, but my prayers began to be more frequent and sincere.
Eighteen months later, my prayers became fervent. We were living in an apartment building in Davenport, Iowa. I loved to read, but I had read everything in our home. A new family from California had just moved in across the hall from us. I decided to get acquainted with my new neighbor: perhaps she had something good to read.
As soon as our son had left for school, I went visiting. After introductions and some casual conversation, I told her why I had come. She said they hadn’t had room in their rental truck to move their books, so they had had to leave them behind. However, she did have one book with her. It was the Book of Mormon.
My neighbor asked me if I had ever heard of the Mormons and I said, “Only what I learned in history class about Brigham Young leading pioneers to Utah.” Then she asked me if I liked history, and I replied yes. Then I would like the Book of Mormon, she said, because it was a history of some early Americans. I was excited since I had often wondered about the American Indians and where they had come from. She then began to tell me about Joseph Smith and how he had found golden plates and translated them. I was fascinated.
I was quite surprised to discover that my neighbor was not a member of the Church. Missionaries had taught her the gospel in California and she was sure it was true, but she felt unable to live the Word of Wisdom. “Be sure to read the Joseph Smith story first,” she told me. “You may borrow this Book of Mormon, but I want it back when you are finished.”
As I read Joseph Smith’s story, it was as though I were there with him, and I knew it was true. My neighbor checked in on me occasionally and was glad to hear that I believed what I was reading.
When I was about halfway through the book, I had to return it because we were moving. I didn’t want to give the book back, but my neighbor told me that I could call the missionaries and they would be glad to bring me a Book of Mormon of my own.
After we moved, I thought about calling the missionaries, but I kept delaying it. “Well, if this is really God’s true church,” I rationalized, “they will find me.”
One morning, as I was getting our son ready for school, I yelled at him, which was something I just never did. I immediately apologized, but I could see the hurt in his eyes. As he left, I watched him out the window, walking down the sidewalk with his head hanging down. He was usually so happy. I felt terrible, and in tears, I fell to my knees, begging Heavenly Father to forgive me. After praying for quite a while, I again asked God to please let me know in some way if the Book of Mormon was true and if this was his true church.
At ten o’clock that morning, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to see two young men dressed in suits. They told me that they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I invited them in. Before long, they told me that when they prayed that morning asking to be guided to those who were seeking the truth, they had felt inspired to come to this area. At first they thought they must be wrong since this area had been tracted several times, but they both felt inspired to return, so they did.
I was baptized about two weeks later. Eighteen years later, my husband was also baptized; he served in the branch presidency, and we were sealed in the temple.
I am thankful for the Book of Mormon and for missionaries who were in tune with the Spirit enough that they knew where to find the one who was praying for their visit.

When I first went to the temple, I was awestruck by the majesty of the Lord’s house. I felt clarity about who I was, why I was on earth, and where my path could lead me when I focused on Christ.
I had just been called to serve a mission in England, and I was excited to go through the temple before I left. I prepared beforehand by learning about temple ordinances and preparing myself to make covenants with the Lord.
Afterward, I knew I wanted to go there consistently throughout my life. And that decision influenced my desire to serve as an ordinance worker too.

When Scouting becomes a family affair, good things happen. At a Court of Honor held recently in Hurricane, Utah, three brothers received their Eagle award—Deward, 18, Keith, 15, and Ronald Stout, 14. Their older brother, Dennis, is also an Eagle Scout. All are active in their priesthood quorums.
According to Scouting officials, the odds against four Eagles in one family are 52,000 to 1.
When the new Scouting program was introduced, Ronald was an 11-year-old Tenderfoot. He made up his mind then to become an Eagle. His enthusiasm was catching, and his brothers Deward and Keith began to work with him toward the same goal.
“We had a lot of fun earning those 24 merit badges,” says Ronald. “One thing I like about it is the happy memories we can look back on. Now my goal is to see how many more merit badges I can earn before I’m 18.”

I had about two months left on my mission in Costa Rica, and I was serving with an American companion, Sister Nguyen. We were excited to be celebrating Christmas and were preparing small bags of sweets and cookies to deliver on Christmas Eve to friends and families in the small city where we lived.
I had spent most of my mission in very poor areas, and I was grateful. The Lord had blessed me by allowing me to teach people in humble homes, to live among them and learn of their kindness, their humility, and their spirit of sacrifice.
The last family we visited to drop off some treats was the Carmona family, a large family that was one of the poorest in the ward. They all—parents, children, in-laws, and grandchildren—lived in a small wooden hut covered with sheet metal, lacking electricity and any other modern comfort. They were preparing traditional tamales that they would eat during the holidays. We made our delivery and returned to our house.
Very early on Christmas morning we heard a knock on the door. To my surprise, I found myself face-to-face with Minor, the 13-year-old son of the Carmona family. He was holding a small package in his hand.
“Sisters,” he said, “Mother sent me to give you these tamales. Have a merry Christmas!”
I was so thankful they had thought of us—we who had not yet received anything from our own families, we who had not been expecting anything. And this family that probably had just enough for themselves offered us a part of their Christmas “feast.”
I showed my companion the package, and I could see tears running down her cheeks. “Sister, what’s wrong?” I asked.
She answered me very simply: “Sister Burcion, it’s Christmas!”
Yes, it was Christmas, and they had shared the little they had with us, the missionaries, as they would have shared with Christ. It was the only gift we received that Christmas day, a gift I will never forget.

“I shared this story with some of our new elders just last week when I was driving them in our van out to their first assignment. I turned to Elder Bobby Yazzie in the seat next to mine and asked, ‘Did you ever happen to meet Elder Descheenie?’ A smile came on his face, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘President,’ he said, ‘He is the one that found me, taught me, and baptized me. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here today. I’m the only one in my entire family who is a member of the Church.’
“It’s hard to explain the thrill I felt when he told me this. Only a short two years before, Bobby had never heard of the Church, and here he was riding beside me: sharp, handsome, clear-eyed, and anxious to go forth and share his testimony among his people. Bobby had only been out for a short time when he had his first baptisms, his own grandfather and grandmother, and since then many more.”

Henry’s trip across the ocean was long and lonely. During the day he liked to stand at the rail and look out across the ocean. He couldn’t see anything in either direction. How did the captain know where America was? Henry wondered. Would they ever get there?
At last, several weeks after they left England, a sailor called, “Land ho!” Henry raced to the railing with the other passengers. Far on the horizon he could see a small strip of land. America! Even though New York was just the first stop on his long trip to Salt Lake, excitement swelled in Henry. He was on his way to Utah!
When the ship docked in New York, Henry went to the train station. His parents had given him money for a ticket to Salt Lake City before he left. He stepped up to the ticket counter and put his money down. “I’d like a ticket to Salt Lake City, please,” he said.
The ticket agent counted the money and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you only have enough money to go to Chicago.”
Henry looked at a map on the wall, and his heart sank. “But that’s not even halfway!”
“I’m sorry, but that’s as far as your money will take you,” the ticket agent said. “Maybe in Chicago you can work to earn enough to go the rest of the way. There’s always work for boys who are willing and strong.”
“I’m willing and strong,” Henry told him. “And my family is depending on me to get to Utah!”
Henry waited in the train station all night, sleeping on a bench with his trunk underneath. In the morning he heard the announcement that the train to Chicago was about to leave. He rushed to the train and sat near two little girls and their mother. As the train began to move, the girls turned to talk to Henry. “What’s your name?” one of them asked. “Where are you going?” asked the other. Henry told them. The girls giggled at his accent and asked him all sorts of questions about England. Henry played games and sang songs with the two girls. It helped pass the time as the train clattered along.
At lunchtime the girls’ mother opened her picnic basket. She offered Henry some of their cheese, apples, and bread. “I packed much more than we need,” she said. “And you have been so kind to my children.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. It was the best food he’d tasted since he left home.
After several days, the train pulled into the station in Chicago. Henry said goodbye to the girls and their mother. Then he took his trunk and walked up to one of the conductors. “Do you know where I could find work?” Henry asked.
“All the supply wagons leave from the freight yards,” the conductor told him. “You might try there.” Henry thanked him and started off in that direction.
The freight yard was lined with rows of wagons loaded with coal, cotton, tools, flour, and sugar. Henry even spotted crates of ducks and chickens.
Henry found the freight master and explained to him that he needed to get to Utah.
“A man named Amos is heading out to the Utah Territory and might be willing to take you,” the freight master said. “Amos looks a bit rough, but he’s a good person. Look for a man with a red beard.”
Henry said thank you, then turned and started down the rows of wagons. He clutched his trunk as he looked from wagon to wagon, searching for the man with the red beard who could take him to Utah.
Then, at the very end of the row, Henry saw him.

On an early morning in January, my husband and I drove to the hospital for the birth of our fifth child, Charlotte. I had been anxious during my pregnancy, and now I fretted to my husband, “What if our baby isn’t all right?”
“Then we’ll love her just the same,” he answered consolingly.
When my daughter finally lay beside me in the delivery room, I examined her. She looked perfect. But when she was whisked away, I asked in alarm, “What’s the matter? Is my baby all right?”
“The doctor will talk to you,” the nurse responded. My stomach knotted, and my worst fears began to surface.
The doctor soon told us that our baby had Down syndrome. Sorrow, disbelief, anger, and guilt boiled up.
“Why us? Why Charlotte?” I questioned. My world seemed to have changed forever, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Charlotte’s birth was the beginning of the hard times. A short time later my mother-in-law had a stroke; two of our cars broke down; our business struggled; Charlotte required surgery on her eyes, ears, and heart; and the medical bills flooded in.
One particularly overwhelming day, I took Charlotte to our bedroom and said a discouraged prayer. “Heavenly Father, this is more than I can bear. Please help me.” Slowly I got to my feet and turned on the television news, looking for a distraction.
The top story described a plane crash that killed all the passengers. For the first time, I listened to the news in a different way. “Someone’s husband was killed in that crash,” I reflected. “If I had the power to trade places, would I rather be a widow?”
The next story told of a young man arrested for selling drugs. I thought, “That is someone’s son. Would I rather be his mother?” Dawning understanding brought a simple but important realization: we all face trials to help us progress.
I looked over at Charlotte, and some words came clearly to mind: “Why are you so sad when Heavenly Father has sent you a sweet little baby to love?” That was my answer. No plane crashes or drugs—I got to love little Charlotte. Rather than deserting me, Heavenly Father was entrusting me with a child who needed extra care. Realizing the confidence He had placed in me, I felt my bitterness slip away.
Charlotte has taught us peace and appreciation. Although frustrating times come, she is an integral part of our family. She is a little piece of heaven sent to us to love.

Matthew Holland was born in 1966, Mary Alice in 1969, and David Frank (who recently returned after serving a mission in the Czech Republic) in 1973. Matt, now a doctoral student at Duke University, recalls that spiritual training was a part of everyday family life. On an outing when he was about 12 years old, he had his first experience with feeling personal revelation.

Returning from an exploring trip on backcountry roads, he and his father came to an unexpected fork and could not remember which road to take. It was late in the day, and they knew darkness would be enveloping them in unfamiliar territory. Seizing a teaching moment, Jeffrey Holland asked his son to pray for direction. Afterward, he asked his son what he felt, and Matt replied that he felt strongly they should go to the left. Replying that he had felt the same way, his father turned the truck to the left. Ten minutes later, they came to a dead end and returned to take the other route.

Matt thought for a time and then asked his father why they would get that kind of answer to a prayer. His father replied that with the sun going down, that was undoubtedly the quickest way for the Lord to give them information—in this case, which one was the wrong road. Now, though the other road might not be familiar and could be difficult in places, they could proceed confidently, knowing it was the right one, even in the dark.

Also of utmost importance to Sister Whang was that the girls learn responsibility and be treated as equals. They were each assigned chores around the home—preparing food, washing clothes, and cleaning—and they were each expected to use the home’s resources wisely. Jessica remembers a time when one of the girls threw away a blouse that could have been repaired. When Sister Whang found it in the garbage, she lectured the girls on not wasting. Then, at the next home evening, she gave everyone a plastic sewing box full of needles and thread and taught them how to mend.

On 20 April 1935, after five years as stake president, Brother Lee was called to the office of the First Presidency and was asked to take charge of a new Church welfare plan. He felt very humble and inadequate in this huge assignment. So, as was his pattern, he went to the Lord in prayer.

“As I kneeled down, my petition was, ‘What kind of organization should be set up in order to accomplish what the Presidency has assigned?’ And there came to me that glorious morning one of the most heavenly realizations of the power of the priesthood of God. It was as though something were saying to me, ‘There is no new organization necessary to take care of the needs of this people. All that is necessary is to put the priesthood of God to work. There is nothing else that you need as a substitute.’”

He resigned from the city commission and began a life of full-time service to the kingdom of God, never wavering in his assurance that God would guide him and that within the priesthood organization were the answers to all the challenges that lay ahead of the growing church.

Sister Ana Rivera braided her long dark hair and pulled her scripture bag over her shoulder. Another day of her mission was about to begin. She was excited to see what miracles lay ahead!
Ana and her companion, Sister Carrascal, walked outside into the morning air. They could see tall volcanoes in the distance as they walked through the village. They were some of the first missionaries to be serving in the Otavalo area. The Church in Ecuador was still new, but it was growing.
“Hola!” they said as they greeted one of the families they were teaching. A mother, father, and several children gathered for a lesson.
“Today we are going to teach about prophets,” Ana’s companion said. Ana and Sister Carrascal took turns explaining how God calls prophets to teach about Jesus Christ.
When it was time to read, Ana opened her Book of Mormon. Ana always read the scripture verses because Sister Carrascal couldn’t read or write. Sister Carrascal was still a powerful missionary.
“I know that what we’ve shared today is true,” Ana said at the end of the lesson. “Will you pray to know for yourself?”
The family nodded. Ana felt warm in her heart.
At the end of the day, Sister Carrascal said, “Can you teach me to read and write?”
Ana didn’t know what to say. She had never taught someone to read before. She didn’t know if she could do it.
“I can try,” Ana finally said. “I don’t know if I’ll be a good teacher.”
Sister Carrascal smiled big. “Just teach me,” she said. “I will pray to Heavenly Father to help me understand.”
Ana was amazed by Sister Carrascal’s faith. “OK. I’ll do it!” she said.
Each morning, Ana worked hard to help Sister Carrascal learn. They practiced writing letters. They sounded out words. They prayed for help. Eventually, Sister Carrascal was reading scripture verses, one word at a time!

Let me tell you about two sister missionaries who called at a home one morning before the husband went to work. They were welcomed in, so they immediately told about Joseph Smith’s first vision, the angel Moroni, the gold plates, and the restoration of the priesthood. Then the senior companion, noting that about forty-five minutes had gone by, said, “We would like to return next week to tell you more.”

To which the husband exclaimed, “Next week?” He walked to the door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, and said, “You’re not leaving here till you’ve told us all you know about Joseph Smith and this restored gospel!” They were there all day. The family asked for baptism that same evening.

Several months ago we were having family scripture study. My two-year-old grandson was sitting on my lap as we read. I was in full-blown grandma mode, relishing the visit of my son’s family.
With our scripture study complete, I closed my book. My grandson knew that it would soon be bedtime. He looked up with his eager blue eyes and spoke an eternal truth: “More scriptures, Nana.”
My son, a good and consistent parent, warned me, “Mom, don’t be a weak link. He is just trying to get out of going to bed.”
But when my grandson asks for more scriptures, we read more scriptures! More scriptures enlighten our minds, nourish our spirits, answer our questions, increase our trust in the Lord, and help us center our lives on Him. “Remember to search them diligently, that ye may profit thereby.”

Some people may think it’s unusual for someone as young as Steven to play the organ for sacrament meeting, but for the Parkway Eighth Ward in South Jordan, Utah, young players are a regular occurrence. Steven is just one of seven youth in this ward who take turns playing the organ for sacrament meeting.
The youth involvement started when Sister Deanna Sorensen, the former ward organist, was going to retire from her job as a schoolteacher and go on a mission. There was only one other person in the ward who could play, so Sister Sorensen decided to teach some of the youth who already played the piano how to play the organ.
“Sister Sorensen was always talking about how the world needs more organ players,” says Emily Holbrook, 17.
Emily decided to learn the organ when Sister Sorensen was tutoring her in math and mentioned she would be teaching the organ. Emily thought it sounded exciting and wanted to learn how to play.
The most important thing she and the other students would learn was to hold down the organ keys for the duration of the notes, because unlike a piano, an organ has no sustain pedal. An organ also has two keyboards, a number of foot pedals, and things called stops, which change the type of sound that comes out of the organ.
Learning the organ can be difficult, but these youth have put in the effort and received support from their leaders and parents. And they know their efforts make a difference.
“It’s really blessed our ward because we’ve all developed a greater love and appreciation for the hymns,” Sister Craven says. She also says the ward has grown closer as they’ve come together to support the youth.
“A lot of people come up and give me compliments and they seem really happy the youth are helping out,” says Landon Howard, 14, another organist.
Playing for sacrament meeting was not easy at first. Lauren Howard, 17, remembers being nervous. “I was terrified,” she says. “I remember my hands were just shaking.” All the youth admitted they were scared, but they did it anyway.
“I knew it would be a good experience and it would help me overcome my fear of playing,” Lauren says. “And now it has. I’m a lot better than I was my first time.”
The key to overcoming fear, they learned, is putting effort into preparation.
“I just practiced a lot,” says Randon Fullmer, 13. The other youth agreed that practice helped them overcome nervousness. They also relied on the Lord.
“I think that the Lord has helped me play by calming my nervousness before I play,” Steven says. “I pray before I play, and it helps me play better, without too many mistakes.”
These students started taking lessons so they could learn a skill and help their ward, but in the process they learned a lot of other things.
“I know Heavenly Father is there,” says Jenny Forsyth, 16. “I know that I can’t do it without Him.”
Sharli Fullmer, 11, the youngest of the group has learned that “your testimony can grow when you sing and play because the hymns teach you truth.”
Sister Craven says the youth have also learned how to magnify a calling. They choose the hymns they would like to play, subject to approval from the ward music leader and the bishop. And not one of them has ever missed a Sunday assignment. Learning to play the organ will prepare them for future callings, especially if they are somewhere an organist is needed.
“I think it could be a good talent to use on a mission, for example,” Landon says.
Many youth at some point have the opportunity to learn to play a musical instrument, and some have the chance to play in sacrament meeting. The youth of the Parkway Eighth Ward know youth can be successful at both.
“Stick with it; don’t give it up,” Emily says. “A lot of people do it because their parents want them to. Or they get really discouraged because they’re not doing very well. I say just have fun with it and have a good attitude.”
“Pray to Heavenly Father that He will help you, and practice really hard and practice a lot,” Jenny says.
It’s the positive attitude, practice, and reliance on the Lord that has helped them to play and to serve, something they do so well that the members of their ward are excited to look and see who is playing.

The flame in the kerosene lamp flickered and sputtered. Mrs. Sheridan looked anxiously to see if all the oil was gone. She knew that the jug in the cupboard contained only enough kerosene to fill the lamp one more time.
As the flame settled, Mrs. Sheridan went on with the inventory: the big sugar crock was empty, the cornmeal was gone, there was perhaps enough flour in the barrel for one more batch of bread. As Mrs. Sheridan replaced the lid on the flour barrel, a long, deep sigh escaped her lips.
Jed, who had just turned ten and who was supposed to be asleep, knew why his mother sighed. Just this afternoon he had brought the last of the carrots and potatoes up from the root cellar. He watched his mother as she turned the wick of the lamp lower and lower until the light was gone.
Jed waited for Mother to get into bed with Father. Instead, by the pale wisp of moonlight that slipped into the room under the lower edge of the window curtains, he could see Mother hunched over the table. He knew she was crying. It was not loud crying, because she wouldn’t want Father to know she was crying. She always smiled for Father and said funny things to make him laugh and think everything was going fine.
It hurt Jed to see his mother cry, although he knew she had many things to cry about. Father was too ill to get out of bed and he needed a doctor, and the winter food supply was gone. Father had told mother not to worry when they had given a large supply of flour, sugar, bacon, and potatoes to a hungry Indian family. He had said he’d hitch up the horses and wagon and take a day or two to go to the store at the crossroads for more supplies. But then Father had become ill, and though every day he said that in a day or two he’d be well enough to go for supplies, he seemed to be getting worse.
Carefully, so as not to disturb his two younger brothers, Jed slipped out of bed, crossed the room, and placed a hand gently on his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, Mother,” he said encouragingly. “It’ll be all right. We’ll manage somehow.”
“Oh, Jed!” Mother whispered. “I didn’t know you were awake. Jed, maybe you and I could drive to the store for supplies. Do you think you could ride Bess at the head of the team and guide her across the river while I handle the reins?”
“Sure I could!” Jed replied bravely, though deep inside he was frightened. Even in the summer when the river was not so high—with Father riding Bess and Mother holding the reins for the team—it was scary. The river was wide and swift, and there were only a few places where it was safe to cross.
“Good,” said Mother. “I knew I could depend on you. We must make it there and back in a day. We’ll leave before sunup tomorrow. Come, now, we must get some sleep.”
Mother quietly tucked the covers more snugly around little Rachel as she slept in her cradle, then slipped into bed.
Just as quietly Jed crossed the room and climbed into bed beside his sleeping brothers.
Although Jed knew the day ahead would be a long, tiresome one, he could not sleep. He thought of the river with its splashing, whirling eddies and its swift undercurrents. He remembered how firm Father had to be with Bess as he directed her to lead the team to the opposite shore. Jed thought about how cold and icy the water would be when it splashed on his legs.
Then a different thought came into Jed’s mind: Why don’t I ask the Lord to help me? Why don’t I pray and ask for courage so that I won’t be afraid?
Once more Jed slid from the warmth of his bed and knelt on the cold floor to pray. He asked Heavenly Father to bless him that he would not be afraid of the river, that he could manage Bess as Father did, that he and Mother would have a safe trip to the crossroads and home again, and that Father and the little ones would be taken care of while he and Mother were gone. With a feeling of quiet peace, he crawled back into bed and slept.
It was still dark when Mother awakened Jed. He dressed quickly in the shivery cold, and he and Mother went outside together to hitch the horses. And together, with teeth chattering, they returned to the cabin. Mother kissed Father good-bye. Jed gathered up the bearskin robe for their feet, the quilts for their shoulders, and their meager lunch of bread and dried fruit.
It was midmorning when they drew up at the river crossing. Seeing the river again and listening to its angry rushing and splashing, Jed was afraid all over again.
Mother looked fondly at Jed. She knew the task ahead would be a hard one for him, but she knew of no other way to obtain the supplies. “Think we can make it?” she asked.
“Sure,” replied Jed, jumping from the wagon. “Sure we can.”
But as Jed stood on the sandy riverbank, the river noises suddenly became a mighty roar. His heart began to thud like a pounding hammer, and he had a difficult time climbing onto Bess’s back.
I can’t do it, he thought. I just can’t. But even as his courage seemed to fail, he remembered the sweet, peaceful feeling that had come to him in the night as he had prayed. And so, sitting on Bess at the edge of the river, he prayed again. “Please help me, Heavenly Father, not to be afraid. Please help us to cross the river safely.”
Again the fearful feeling left Jed, and his heart stopped pounding. The river no longer sounded like an angry beast. As the horses stepped into the river, it almost seemed that his father was with him—helping him, guiding him, telling him what to say and do. Though at times the water splashed against his feet and legs, Jed did not seem to feel the cold. Sooner than Jed expected, the wagon was being pulled onto the sand of the opposite shore.
“Good boy!” exclaimed Mother, as Jed climbed back onto the wagon seat. She tucked the bearskin robe around his feet and wrapped a quilt around him. “You did just as well as Father! Just as well!”
In a short time they pulled up in front of the store at the crossroads. Mr. Callihan, the storekeeper, came to the door. “If it isn’t the Sheridans!” he called. “How nice it is to see you. Haven’t seen any of you since last fall. With the river as rough as it is now, I didn’t expect to see any of you until later in the spring. By the way, where is Mr. Sheridan?”
When Mother explained, Mr. Callihan promised to get word to the doctor. Then he patted Jed on the back and said, “You’re a fine lad, Jed! I wouldn’t mind having a half dozen like you.”
“Nor would I,” replied Mother with shining eyes. “I don’t know what I would do without him.”
“Come in now,” continued the jovial Mr. Callihan. “Let’s tend to your needs. You’ll be wanting to hurry back to that sick husband of yours and the little ones.”
When at last the wagon was loaded with flour, sugar, beans, bacon, dried prunes, cornmeal, potatoes, carrots, apples, kerosene, medicine for Father, and a sackful of stick candy, the Sheridans headed home-ward. As they rode along, they talked about how good it was to have the wagon filled with good food and other necessities. How happy Father would be!
Soon Mother again stopped the wagon at the river crossing. For a moment she and Jed sat looking across the river, which seemed to be rushing along as though it were a racehorse urged on by an anxious rider.
Before Mother could say a word, Jed jumped from the wagon. As he climbed onto Bess, his body trembled and cold chills raced up and down his spine. But his fear lasted only a moment. With the help of Heavenly Father, he and his mother had crossed the river once, and they would do it again. Turning his head, he smiled at his mother. Then, after shouting “Giddap!” and giving Bess a smart spank, Jed headed the wagon for the opposite shore.
Soon the wagon was rolling up the road to the cabin. As they drew near, Jed could see Father standing in the doorway. The doctor had been there and had given Father medicine, and he was much better. He waved and smiled, and Mother cried with happiness as the wagon stopped.
Jed climbed down and ran to his father. “I did it, Father!” he said. “I took Mother across the river and back again.”
Father put his hand on Jed’s shoulder. “I knew you could do it,” he said. “The Lord helped you.”
And Jed knew it was true. He had prayed for courage and had been helped. He had prayed again at the river and had been helped again. Now he felt sure that Heavenly Father would help him whenever he needed it.

Joseph and Janice Clark were blessed with two sons, Jacob and Andrew. Five years ago, Joseph was stricken suddenly and, in effect, became a hospitalized quadriplegic. There, supine Joseph’s sons would often be cradled in his arms. Joseph would always smile even when he could not speak audibly. In the eyes of the world, his was a catastrophic illness. Nevertheless, Joseph, his saintly wife, and their two boys, and with strong support from parents and families, coped remarkably for five years. Because they trusted God as to what was really going on, like Job they did not "[charge] God foolishly” (Job 1:22).

Amid all the incessant and difficult problems, many of us watched Janice and Joseph apply King Benjamin’s words by showing that they were “willing to submit” to what had been inflicted upon them (Mosiah 3:19). Radiant Joseph died recently. The very day after his death, prescient, nine-year-old Jacob, who knew firsthand of his father’s loving and outreaching nature, said, “Mom, I’ll bet Dad already has a lot of friends in heaven!” A few days later, seven-year-old Andrew struggled with a computer assignment at school but later reported to his mother, “I just thought of Dad, and he helped me.”

One who escaped a brush with gang life is Ath Ket, 16, a Cambodian by birth. Ath recalls what his life was like before he encountered the Church: “It was pretty bad. I used to hang around gang members a lot.” And if he hadn’t met the elders that day four years ago as he walked along the Boston Common? “I’d probably be hanging around, fighting, stealing cars, drinking.”
But Ath did meet the Elders and did agree to hear the lessons. He had already been baptized into another church, but the missionaries’ message rang true. “I feel good about the Church. Now I know it’s true. I learn more about it every day.”