Gospel Story Finder

I remember the first time Jenni walked into my seminary class and said hi to me. She had a very difficult time speaking, her words were slurred and hard to understand, and she limped and hobbled as she tried to make her legs carry her frail body toward her desk. During Jenni’s first week of “mainstreaming” in my class, she seemed content to be mostly ignored by her classmates, who appeared to be struggling to figure out how to interact with her.
Jenni would try to speak, and very few students could understand her. She had a difficult time keeping her nose wiped, and sometimes she would drool and soil her shirt. The students in my classroom were unaccustomed to the needs and actions of someone like Jenni, so most of them distanced themselves from her both physically and socially and, as a result, proceeded to politely ignore her.
However, they weren’t aware that inside Jenni’s deformed body was a keen mind, a heart of gold, and an indomitable spirit crying out to be heard, to be understood, to be accepted, and to be loved. She wouldn’t be ignored, politely or otherwise.
I’ll never forget the day when Jenni asked me if she could say something to the class. I wondered what she wanted to say to everyone, but I never expected her to deliver the message she did.
“I neeeeed a frrriennnd,” she stuttered. “I neeeeeeeed sommeonne toooo ssiitt bbyy mmee attt lllunnch.”
As she finished her last word, a hush settled over the class. Jenni stood erect and, rather than doing the socially acceptable thing and taking her seat, she waited for a volunteer. Finally, from the back of the classroom, Treasure raised her hand and said, “I’ll be your friend, Jenni.” Jenni responded by asking, “And sit by me at lunch?”
Treasure responded, “And sit by you at lunch.”
“Every day?” asked Jenni.
“Every day,” answered Treasure.
This conversation relieved the class but also gave Treasure’s friend Wendy the confidence to raise her hand and tell Jenni that she would also be her friend and sit by her at lunch every day. The “miracle of Jenni” had begun!
The next day Treasure and Wendy sat by Jenni at lunch and then helped her through the school parking lot to the seminary building. I noticed as the days turned into weeks that Treasure and Wendy began to translate Jenni’s words when we couldn’t understand her.
As the students began to see what a beautiful, intelligent person Jenni was, they began to invite her to activities, to pick her up, to help her with her difficulties. On one occasion, Jenni excitedly told me she had a date with a young man named Kurt. “He’s so cute!” she told me. This led to other dates, more recognition, and more fun.
Often during class when someone would be sharing their feelings and begin to weep, Jenni would, unannounced, get up and walk over to this person and put her arm around them and hold them. This would touch the class, and soon we would all be weeping. Jenni would often bear her testimony to the class. She would express her gratitude for her many blessings, especially her family, and then share her firm conviction of Jesus Christ.
The months turned into years, and soon it was time for Jenni to graduate from seminary. I remember the love I felt for her as she awkwardly walked up to receive her diploma, and I realized all over again how she had blessed my life. As the ceremony and the meeting ended, I encountered Jenni’s mother at the back of the chapel. As we talked, her eyes watered as she said something like this: “You’ll never know what you’ve done for my little girl.”
I replied, “Oh, not me. Look around,” as I pointed to Jenni’s classmates. “They’re the ones.”
Jenni’s classmates helped her realize what a wonderful person she is. They’re the ones who included her in their circle of friends and helped her feel like she belonged; they’re the ones who saw through her handicap to the special needs of her heart—a young woman wanting to be accepted and understood; they’re the ones who came to see into the beauty of her soul; the ones who helped perform a modern-day miracle—the miracle of Jenni.

As a new mission president in the fall of 2011, I was excited to be out among our missionaries. My wife, Emily, and I decided to do apartment inspections and visit every pair of missionaries in the mission.
As we traveled from Guatemala City to one of our more remote zones, known as Sololá, we learned that a demonstration was blocking the road in front of us. Demonstrations in Guatemala can take hours, and there is usually no way to get past them. But when we inquired about a possible detour, we learned of another route. That route, however, came with the following warnings:
It is not a great road.
Make sure you are not on the road after dark.
Bands of robbers frequent the road.
Like any zealous new mission president and wife, on Emily and I went. After driving a while, we came to a spot on a dirt road that looked like a steep drop-off in front of us. Emily joked that we should get the camera out and take pictures as we went over the edge.
Years earlier, when I was a young missionary in Guatemala, I had learned that a small branch dragged onto the road meant “proceed with caution.” It might even mean “stop.” I had seen a branch but failed to register what it meant.
A moment later, we found ourselves dangling off a 20-foot (6 m) ledge where a bridge had washed out. I managed to climb out my side, but Emily could not open her door. When she tried to climb over the seat and come out my door, the vehicle began to rock. Obviously, it was a very disconcerting moment.
Many thoughts ran through my mind. I could see the headlines: “New Mission President Drives over Embankment Where There Was No Bridge, Resulting in Severe Injury to Wife” or “New Mission President and Wife Missing after Being Robbed on a Road They Should Not Have Been Traveling on.”
Not knowing what to do, I paused outside the vehicle and pleaded with Heavenly Father, “Please help me in my moment of carelessness.” Can you believe that a large banana truck suddenly pulled up behind us? The driver and passengers saw us and came over to laugh and enjoy the predicament of the silly gringo. They pointed out the branch on the road. Literally, it was just a twig.
Then, to our miraculous blessing, they retrieved from their truck the only chain I saw in three years of service in Guatemala. Before they left, they cut down a tree and pulled it across the road. I think they wanted to make sure that the next North American to come by did not make the same mistake.
I tell you this story to make the point that we must heed warnings, promptings, and direction given us by the voice of the Lord—no matter how strong or mild. That voice comes in many forms: scriptures, commandments, whisperings from the Holy Ghost, words of living prophets, and counsel from parents, Church leaders, and good friends. Are we listening for and heeding these promptings and warnings? Why is it important to do so?
We read in Proverbs:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
“Be not wise in thine own eyes: fear the Lord, and depart from evil” (Proverbs 3:5–7).
We must trust the Lord with all our heart. We must understand that our knowledge falls short of what is best for us and best for others. If we do trust in Him, what a wonderful promise He bestows: He will direct our paths.
In our family, we have a saying that became an important part of our mission. President Russell M. Nelson has been teaching the concept for a while. He said it this way: “Obedience brings success; exact obedience brings miracles.”1
Our family and mission version is “Obedience brings blessings, but exact obedience brings miracles.”
I do not completely understand what exact obedience means, but here is what I have come to understand. It does not mean that we are perfectly obedient right now in all things, although we can be perfect in obeying many of the Lord’s commandments. Hence, repentance must be a key part of exact obedience. Exact obedience requires a commitment to all the warnings and promptings and commandments Heavenly Father gives us.
Sometimes we will not understand why Heavenly Father asks certain things of us. Those times can be some of the toughest times to be exactly obedient. Remember when Adam, one of the greatest of all, was asked why he gave sacrifice: “And after many days an angel of the Lord appeared unto Adam, saying: Why dost thou offer sacrifices unto the Lord? And Adam said unto him: I know not, save the Lord commanded me” (Moses 5:6).
Lead, Kindly Light, by Simon Dewey; Christ’s Image, by Heinrich Hofmann
Emily has been a wonderful example of exact obedience even when she has not understood. During the October 2000 general conference, she heard the following counsel from President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “We discourage tattoos and also ‘the piercing of the body for other than medical purposes.’ We do not, however, take any position ‘on the minimal piercing of the ears by women for one pair of earrings’—one pair.”2
When my wife arrived home, she explained to our second daughter the importance of following the prophets no matter what. As she talked, my wife also obeyed. She took out her second pair of earrings for the last time. I believe she still does not understand why, but I know that why does not matter to her.
To some of us, that may seem insignificant because it is such a small thing. That is true. However, I do not remember the Savior saying, “If ye love me, keep my commandments that appear important” (see John 14:15).
My dear brothers and sisters, one clear voice of warning we must always heed comes from the Lord’s chosen apostles and prophets. It might not be popular by the world’s standards, just like that small thing requested by President Hinckley. But you can—you must—trust that it comes from Heavenly Father. It might be only a small twig, or it might be a whole tree dragged across the road. I exhort you to read or listen to general conference with this thought in mind: What twigs or trees did the Lord place in my path?
Some of you may be thinking, “Well, that is great. But what do you do when you are seeking promptings, counsel from the Lord, warnings, and direction, and you just do not seem to receive an answer?”
Maybe you have this concern regarding important decisions in your life. Remember the promise to trust in the Lord with all your heart, and He will direct your paths.
Regarding important events in our lives, we do want clear direction, and that may be hard to find. But I have come to understand that if I am repentant, being exactly obedient, following my leaders, and making other good choices—in other words, if I am worthy—Heavenly Father will not let me make big mistakes without proper warning. Nor will He let you.
My young friends, Heavenly Father is here to keep us from making costly mistakes if we seek His warnings, promptings, and revelations from all available sources—and if we heed and act upon them. We have the right to have the Holy Ghost always with us, especially in crucial moments of life.
That you will successfully identify the warning twigs and trees that Heavenly Father places in your path is my hope.
I testify that as we heed the voice of the Lord, as we receive it from its many sources and strive to be exactly obedient, we can have a life that ends with “and they lived happily ever after.” That can happen only by living the doctrine of Christ and making and keeping sacred covenants.

The island, Frøya (say Freh-ya), is sparsely inhabited, home of fishing villages, salmon farms, and marine biology research stations. It is also the birthplace of an Apostle. Here, in 1872, John Andreas Widtsoe was born. Later, his widowed mother moved with her children to Trondheim and joined the Church. When John was 11, the family moved to Utah, where he became a great educator and served for 31 years as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve.
“The youth know a little bit about Elder Widtsoe,” says Branch President Arne Dahlø, who organized the trip. “Mostly they know he was somebody important, that he was born on Frøya and lived in Trondheim. But he’s part of our heritage as Norwegian Latter-day Saints. We live where he lived. We ought to know what he did.”
By the time the ferry docks, the light is fading. The youth and their leaders pile quickly into cars. They drive over rough, bumpy roads to the far end of the island, where President Dahlø, a university professor who often does research here, has arranged for two buildings in which the group can stay.
On the rocky shore of an inlet, a young man yells, “Let’s get it started.” Soon a small flame grows bigger, the wood pops as it burns, and the sparks become dancers leaping through the night. The warmth of the flame takes the edge off the cool, salty air. It’s time for a “sausage roast,” the cooking of hotdogs over a campfire.
And like anybody around a campfire, the young people here sing, tell stories, and talk.
“We know a lot about Trondheim, the city where we live,” says Kjetil Bakkland, 13. “It used to be the capital of Norway. it has neat old buildings down by the river; it has a university and a cathedral. But Frøya, what’s it got? Mostly rocks, I think.”
The others laugh, but President Dahlø talks seriously for a minute. “We live in a wonderful city, it’s true,” he says. “But Frøya is a wonderful place, too.” And he talks about life in the villages, about flowers that grow among the rocks, about the incessant, pounding crash of the sea. “Elder Widtsoe knew about that,” he says. “He said you could hear the ocean in every room of his house, that it beat on his memory all through his life” (see In a Sunlit Land, Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1952, p. 1).
Talk of the ocean and of storms invites comparisons with life and its storms. “I’ve been a member one year and one week today,” says Sonja Sivertsvik, 19. “I like it, but it’s hard to be a Mormon in Trondheim, because everyone says, ‘Oh, Mormons! You’re the ones with lots of wives!’ Or you get Christians who try to tell you you’re not Christian. There are lots of misconceptions about the Church, so to be a member here is not always popular.”
“But it’s not always what’s easy that’s best,” says Kristin Davik, the branch Young Women president. “You have to follow the deepest part of you, your conscience. You may meet hard times, but you have to be yourself.”
“All your friends won’t have the same standards you do,” says Lars-Petter M. Bedin, 15. “They’ll have other ideas about alcohol, smoking, chastity. But it’s really not a problem unless you make it a problem. I’m the only member in my family, but I’m happy to be in the Church. It’s one of the greatest things in my life.”
What they’re really talking about is growing, growing even when it’s difficult. The youth may not know it, but they’re talking about things Elder Widtsoe would understand. One of his educational specialties dealt with agriculture. He was an international authority on how to help things grow in a harsh climate.
The next morning dawns wet and gray, as it often does on Frøya. No matter. There’s much to do—first, a meeting with the mayor of one of the towns, then a visit to a monument erected in Elder Widtsoe’s honor, then a trip to the house where he was born and to a church built by his father.
It’s a morning of driving on unmarked roads, of hiking slippery hills, and of pleasant surprises—like finding the mayor already knows quite a bit about John A. Widtsoe, and that the local ship builder would love to have the youth visit his shop.
But mostly it’s a continuation of the journey of self-discovery. As President Dahlø tells some of the youth on top of the hill where the monument to Elder Widtsoe stands, this is like being in a time machine.
“You’re looking back,” he says, “and seeing the origins of a man who went on to do great things for the Church. He didn’t come from someplace famous. His father died when he was young. His mother learned about the Church when a member put some pamphlets inside shoes she was having repaired. But he loved God and he wanted to serve, and Heavenly Father provided a way.
“You can also look forward, and see the future of the Church in Norway,” President Dahlø continues. “And you all have a great part to play in that. It doesn’t matter where you come from or how hard you think things may be. What matters is whether or not you love the Lord, whether or not you want to serve. If you have the desire, God will provide the way.”
It is later in the afternoon now. The youth of the Trondheim First Branch are waiting, looking out to sea, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ferry. Soon it will appear on the line where the gray water and the gray sky meet. The ferry is coming to take them home. But even as they wait, even as they throw rocks in the water and look for sea urchins down by the pier, these young people seem a little bit different than they did before their journey to the island.
The lesson of this harsh land is that good things can grow here. That’s a lesson they’ll remember when they’re back in Trondheim, the next time the waves and winds of life try to beat them down. Here on Frøya, where they have come to look at the past, they have also glimpsed the future. It’s a future that, thanks to the gospel, can be bright indeed.

It was the Christmas season of 1994. Nine-year-old Jaron and his six-year-old brother, Parker, were excited. They had entered a reading contest sponsored by a grocery store in their hometown. The two students who read the most books would each win a brand-new bicycle. All they had to do was have their parents and teachers sign for each book they read. Two bikes were to be awarded, one for the first-to-third-grade levels, and one for the fourth-to-sixth-grade levels.
Parker was especially excited because this was a way for him to earn a bike. He really wanted one. He was tired of watching his older brother ride around on the new purple ten-speed bike he had earned by working at a yard sale. Parker thought that it would be great to earn a bike of his own by reading books. So he started to read books as fast as he could. He read Curious George, Green Eggs and Ham, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. But no matter how many books he read, someone in his grade level had read more.
Meanwhile, Jaron had not been all that enthusiastic about the contest. When he went to the grocery store and checked the big chart with all the readers listed and how many books each had read, however, he could see that his younger brother had little chance of winning the contest.
Touched with the true meaning of Christmas, the joy of giving, he decided to do for Parker what he could not do for himself. So Jaron put away his own bike and, library card in hand, went to work. He read and read. He read when he wanted to ride his bike. He read as much as eight hours a day. The thrill of perhaps having such a wonderful gift to give kept him going.
The day came when the final lists were to be turned in. Jaron’s mother took him to the store, and he turned in his list, then admired the prize-winners bikes on display.
The store manager watched him admire the shiny red twenty-inch bike. “I suppose that if you win the contest,” the manager said, “you’ll want the larger bike, won’t you?”
Jaron looked up at the man’s smiling face and said very seriously, “Oh, no sir. I would like one exactly this size.”
“But isn’t this bike too small for you?”
“No sir—I want to win it for my little brother.”
The man was surprised. He turned to Jaron’s mother and said, “This is the best Christmas story I’ve heard all year!”
Jaron’s mother hadn’t known that he had worked so hard for his little brother. She looked at Jaron with great pride and joy as they went home to await the contest results.
Finally the phone call came! By reading 280 books, Jaron had won! With his parents’ help, he hid the bicycle in his grandma’s basement until Christmas Eve. He could hardly wait to give Parker his gift!
On Christmas Eve, the whole family gathered at Grandma’s home for a special family home evening. Mother told the story of Heavenly Father’s gift to the world of His Son Jesus Christ. Then she told the story of another older brother’s love. Although it wasn’t the great sacrifice the Savior has made for each of us, she said, it was a sacrifice, and it showed how much the older brother loved his younger brother. Parker and his family listened to the story of a brother who had read 280 books to win his little brother a bike.
“My big brother would do something like that for me,” Parker said.
At that, Jaron ran to the other room, where Grandma had moved the bike. The rest of the family proudly grinned while he wheeled out the two-wheeled treasure he had earned for his younger brother. Parker ran over to the bike, and the brothers hugged over the top of it.

Once when our children were young, I decided to test the Lord’s promise by paying our tithe, even though I didn’t know where we would get money to buy food. I didn’t mention our plight to anyone.
To my surprise, my parents soon came to visit, bringing with them enough meat, potatoes, and bread to last us a very long time. But this wasn’t all. Our oldest daughter had a work-study assignment at school. Her assigned workplace was a sandwich shop, and at the end of the week, she received permission to bring home sandwiches for the whole family!
“Now we just lack some fruit,” I thought to myself. And that afternoon, returning from biking, I saw a lady putting apples into a bag. “Would you like to have these?” she asked. Surprised, I said that I would like them very much indeed.
Just then our neighbor’s young son came by. When he saw the delicious apples, he asked, “Could I have just one?” I held the bag out to him, and he chose one. Thanking me, he hurried away, his eyes shining with happiness.
I thought afterward that the Lord must have wanted to test me too. When He had given so much to me and mine, would I also share with others? I did—and have tried to do so ever since.
Jytte Christiansen, Fredericia Ward, Aarhus Denmark Stake

Erdenet Mongolia Branch
They cooked pizza on reflector ovens; they sang, danced, had classes, and even ate a meal with hot dogs as the main course. Twenty-three young women from the Erdenet Mongolia Branch strengthened each other as they spent three days at girls’ camp in the Mongolian countryside in Bugat. At the testimony meeting they spoke of their love for the Savior and for each other, and of their gratitude for the Church.

A wise leader recently counseled a man who was trying to overcome years of destructive choices. The man felt ashamed, doubting that he was worthy of anyone’s love.
His leader said to him, “The Lord knows you, loves you, and is pleased [with] you and the courageous steps you are taking.” But then he added, “[You] need to hear the commandment to love yourself so you can feel [God’s] love and love others.”
When this brother heard that counsel, he saw life with new eyes. He later said, “I have spent my whole life trying to find peace and acceptance. I have looked for those things in many wrong places. Only in the love of Heavenly Father and the Savior can I find comfort. I know They want me to love myself; it really is the only way I can feel Their love for me.”

In a touching letter I received just this week, a mother wrote of her Marine son who is serving for the second time in a Middle Eastern war. She says that at the time of his first deployment, “he came home on leave and asked me to go for a walk. … He had his arm around me and he told me about going to war. He … said, ‘Mom, I have to go so you and the family can be free, free to worship as you please. … And if it costs me my life … then giving my life is worth it.’”He is now there again and has written to his family recently, saying, “I am proud to be here serving my nation and our way of life. … I feel a lot safer knowing our Heavenly Father is with me.”

Years of practicing the piano paid off for Stephen Beus when he took home first prize in the Gina Bachauer International Artists Piano Competition last September. His performance of Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto secured him the first-place award.

Stephen, who grew up in Othello, Washington, had to compete against people from all over the world, including Japan, Russia, and Germany, in this international competition, which is held in Salt Lake City.

However, this was not the first time Stephen has competed in the Bachauer competition. When he was 11, he took part in the junior division and placed fifth. Three years later, in 1996, Stephen competed again in the junior division and took first place. A few years later, Stephen put his piano career on hold for two years to serve a full-time mission in Finland. Read about why he did it in “Playing a Different Tune” from the August 2001 New Era.

“You look so ridiculous, Ed. I’m totally serious,” the lovely and talented Maggie, my 10-year-old sister, told me as I was leaving to go to work at Reel Life Video store. I caught a glimpse of myself in the entryway mirror. Unfortunately, she was right.
And you would look ridiculous, too, if you were required by your employer to wear shiny shoes with pointed toes, black tuxedo pants, a red cummerbund, a ruffled shirt, and a snappy red bow tie. It doesn’t help, either, that I have to wear a former employee’s name tag because my manager hasn’t had a new one made up for me yet. So that is why I, Ed McIff, an ordinary, boring teenager with an ordinary, boring life, wear a name tag that says “Sergio” instead of my name.
“See you later, Sergio!” my mom trilled from the kitchen. And then she burst into gales of laughter.
Doesn’t it say somewhere that mothers aren’t supposed to laugh at their children who are required to wear stupid clothes to work? I opened our ordinary, boring front door and let myself out into a boring evening in ordinary, boring Salt Lake City, Utah.
Actually, work was okay. We were pretty busy, which helps the time go by faster. I was surprised when Marv the Manager told me and Wendy, another proud Reel Life Video employee like myself, to go on break.
“Want to get some ice cream next door?” Wendy asked as we walked out the door together.
I gave her a sideways smile. “A triple scoop of burnt almond fudge, chocolate, and vanilla …”
“… in a sugar cone,” she finished my sentence for me and grinned.
“My treat,” I said.
“You always treat, Ed,” she said, giving my arm a friendly slug.
“You’re right, I do.”
Wendy Duncan is possibly the only human being I know who likes ice cream more than I do, which is one of the things that makes it so fun to buy it for her. In fact, we like a lot of the same things—baseball, science fiction novels, old movies, breakfast at George’s Cafe. You get the idea.
After getting our cones, we sat down on the strip of grass in front of Reel Life Video and looked at the evening sky while licking ice cream. The moon was high and bright.
“Sometimes when I really miss my brother,” Wendy said, “I step out onto our front porch and wonder if he’s looking at the moon, too. Thinking about him doing the exact same thing I’m doing makes it feel like he’s not so far away after all.”
Wendy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Alo, irmão Ben,” she called to the moon. “That means, ‘Hello, Brother Ben,’ in case you’re interested.” Wendy’s brother, Ben, is on a mission in Brazil.
“When I was a little boy my mother told me I could make wishes on a star,” I told her. “But I liked the moon better because it was way bigger, so I always made my wishes on the moon.”
“Moonlight, moon bright, the first moon I see tonight,” Wendy laughed. “So what do you wish for on the moon tonight, Ed?”
“Nothing,” I told her. “I happen to know from personal experience that wishing on the moon doesn’t work.”
Actually, this is only partially true. Wishing doesn’t work, it’s true, but I do it anyway. And what I wished for that night as I sat in front of Reel Life Video eating ice cream with Wendy was that my life wouldn’t be so ordinary and boring.
What I wished for was excitement.
Wendy and I were busy shelving videos when someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Do you work here?”
“Yes, I work here,” I answered politely as I tucked Ivanhoe back on the shelf. Then I turned to discover, standing there, the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life.
Okay. Here are some adjectives to help you get the picture. Tall. Brown hair. Tan. Blue-eyed. Smooth-skinned. Gorgeous. You look at her and think she’s so much higher up on the food chain than you are that the two of you don’t even belong to the same species.
For the record, this is the kind of girl who is never interested in guys wearing red cummerbunds.
She flashed me a dazzling smile (her teeth, in case you’re interested, were white and even, not unlike pearls). Then, looking at my name tag, she said, “You’re Sergio. What a cool name!”
My heart began to pound beneath my frilly shirt. Here it was. My big chance to stop being ordinary, to stop being boring.
“Yes, indeed,” I said, barely believing what was coming out of my mouth. “My name is Sergio. Sergio Mendez.”
Wendy looked at me in pure disbelief, then crossed her eyes.
Sergio Mendez? Now where had that come from? Somehow it was a name with a vaguely familiar ring.
“Wow!” the amazingly beautiful girl said, and I could tell she was interested, really interested. In me! “Sergio Mendez. Are you from somewhere else? I mean besides Salt Lake City?”
Wendy was watching me now with a great deal of interest.
“Yes,” I blurted out. This is not technically the truth since I was born in Salt Lake City and have lived in Salt Lake my whole life. It’s just that I would have been from someplace else if I’d had the chance. “I’m from Brazil originally.” I even faked a little bit of an accent when I said this.
Wendy began to choke, and the beautiful girl shot her a look of real concern. “Are you okay?”
Wendy nodded, causing the beautiful girl to smile kindly at her as she spoke. “Isn’t that cool he’s from Brazil, but he speaks English like a native.”
“Like a native,” Wendy agreed. “He probably speaks Brazilian like a native, too.”
Brazilian?
Wendy’s little joke did not register with the beautiful girl who forged ahead. “I’d love to go to Brazil. Wouldn’t you?” she asked Wendy, who nodded truthfully.
The beautiful girl wrapped her beautiful arms around herself and sighed dreamily. “I’ve never been anywhere, really. Just being here in Salt Lake City this summer is such a huge deal for me. And I love it here. Honest! I love the way you can walk outside at night and see lights everywhere. It feels like there are a whole bunch of people all around you doing really interesting things.”
“Where are you from?”
The girl gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Well, I’m for sure not from Brazil. I come from Fountain Green. You’ve probably never even heard of it. It’s a little town way down in Sanpete County. I’m staying here for the summer with my Aunt Mary, who’s a student at the University of Utah. She got me a job waitressing at the same place she works. By the way, my name’s Liesel.”
“And I’m Wendy.”
Liesel grabbed Wendy’s hand and shook it. I could tell that Wendy was surprised. I mean who shakes hands when they’re 16? Surprised or not, however, Wendy was softening.
“Wendy and Sergio,” Liesel gave a happy little laugh. “You’re my new friends in Salt Lake City.”
Marv the Manager, who absolutely cannot stand it when his employees look like they’re having fun, joined us. “Are these two helping you find everything you need?” he asked Liesel.
Liesel linked her arms through mine and Wendy’s. “They were just going to show me where I can find The Sound of Music. My mom named me after one of the characters, you know.” She winked at Marv. He did a little backwards stagger as though he’d just been kissed. It was easy to see that Marv was totally smitten. Just like the rest of us.
There was a little surprise waiting for me in the parking lot when I got off work. Liesel and another girl, who was a few years older, were sitting in a truck. Liesel waved and smiled when she saw me, then elbowed the girl next to her. I walked over to say hello. Or make that “alo.”
“This is the boy I was telling you about, Mary,” she said. “Sergio Mendez. Sergio, this is my Aunt Mary, the one I’m living with this summer.”
“Sergio Mendez?” the aunt repeated, looking me up and down. I started to feel nervous. What if she thought I was—you know—a phony?
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said in my best Eagle Scout voice.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Sergio,” Liesel’s aunt said through the pickup window. She had a little smile on her face. I wasn’t sure it was a friendly smile, to tell you the truth, but then again it was hard to tell in the dark.
“Can you teach me some words, Sergio?” Liesel said. Then she lowered her beautiful voice to a whisper. “By the way, I know you speak Portuguese. Not Brazilian. I went along with Wendy when she said that because I didn’t want her to feel stupid. She’s really sweet, Sergio.”
“Right,” I said. A strange, uncomfortable feeling shot through me. Whatever the feeling was, it didn’t stop me from calling Sweet Wendy the next day. “You have to help me learn some Portuguese quick.”
“You’re crazy, Ed. Oh, excuse me. Senhor Sergio Mendez.” Wendy did a very obnoxious accent. “Talk about lame. My father still has his old Sergio Mendez and Brazil 66 albums from when he was in high school.”
No wonder my new name had sounded familiar to me. I used to be a rock star back in the late ’60s. I prayed that neither Liesel nor her Aunt Mary had recognized the name.
“Didn’t Ben teach you any words besides ‘Alo’?” I pressed on, ignoring Wendy’s wisecracks.
“Well,” Wendy sounded reluctant, “I can say the days of the week.”
“The days of the week are good. I can just stand there and say Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday over and over again in Portuguese, and Liesel won’t know the difference.”
“Ed …” Wendy paused.
“Well?”
“Ed, my first impulse is to hate girls that look like Liesel because—well, because I don’t look like them. But Liesel seems really nice. And innocent. And maybe even a little lonely.” Wendy stopped.
“So what’s your point?” I said, playing really stupid. The feeling from last night returned, although this time I came closer to recognizing it for what it was.
“My point, Ed,” Wendy pressed on, “is that you’re tricking her. She’s going to feel bad if she finds out.”
“Who says she’s going to find out?”
Wendy snorted.
“Please, Wendy,” I pleaded. “This is my chance to—to be somebody different. Somebody who is not ordinary, boring Ed McIff.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how totally pathetic they were. And also how true.
“Okay, fine,” she snapped. “Sunday is domingo. Monday is segunda-feira. Tuesday is terca-feira …”
You know that feeling I had while talking to Liesel and Mary? Well, I’m pretty sure it was guilt.
Liesel returned the next day, looking as fresh as flowers in the morning. Her Aunt Mary was with her, and so was another guy who looked like he spent his lunch hours in the gym every day.
“Hi, Sergio,” Liesel said with a sunny grin. “I brought you a surprise today. Mary’s friend, Rick!”
Just what I always wanted for a surprise. A guy with big muscles.
“Rick went on his mission to Brazil, and Mary thought it might make you happy to have somebody to talk to in your own language again,” Liesel said, her face alive with kindness and concern.
“Como vai?” Rick smiled and crushed my hand, although in fairness I think he only meant to shake it.
My stomach dropped like a loose elevator. I opened my mouth to answer him. “Domingo, segunda-feira, terca-feira.”
Rick looked at me closely. “Que?”
I repeated myself, “Domingo, segunda-feira.”
Rick didn’t say anything, but I could see from his expression that he realized what was going on. Just my luck.
Liesel giggled, “Hey, what are you guys saying to each other?”
“Not much,” I said truthfully.
“Mary, show Liesel that movie we were looking at the other night and ask her if she wants to check it out,” Rick said. Liesel gave me a smile then hurried down the aisle after her aunt.
“Okay,” Elder Rick whispered to me, his face close to mine. “I’m giving you a choice: either you come clean with her, or I’ll do it for you. Okay, Sergio?”
I swallowed and nodded, fear and shame coursing through my veins like salmon swimming upstream. I looked over at Wendy. Her face was unintelligible.
Mary, Liesel, and Rick returned with an armful of videos which I checked out for them. Liesel was chattering away happily, but I only heard part of what she said because I was so distracted.
“Ah, Liesel,” I said, as they turned to go. “Could I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”
Rick looked over Mary and Liesel’s heads and gave me a little smile that was actually friendly. “We’ll wait for you in the truck, Liesel,” he said, then left with Mary.
Liesel gave me a sidelong glance while smiling and shuffling her feet a little bit. She was acting like a girl who knows you’re going to ask her to dance.
I cleared my throat. “I owe you an apology. I … I lied to you. My name isn’t Sergio. It’s Ed McIff. I’ve never been to Brazil.”
The smile faded slowly from Liesel’s lips as my words sank in.
“The only reason I wear this name tag is because my manager hasn’t made me a new one yet,” I went on.
Liesel looked straight at me for a long time, then said, “You must think I’m pretty stupid, huh?”
“No!” I said. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all!”
“Then why did you lie to me?”
I hadn’t let myself think about how Liesel would feel if she found out I was lying. But now I could see that she was hurt, maybe even a little humiliated, which made me feel like the complete jerk I’d been. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all. I was just trying to impress you. I was trying to be somebody I’m not to get your attention.”
“But how do you know I wouldn’t have liked Ed McIff?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You misjudged me, Ed,” Liesel said softly. “It’s too bad, too. We could have been friends this summer.”
She gave me one last look out of those huge blue eyes, picked up her videos, and walked out of the door. And out of my life.
Wendy let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
Just then, Marv the Manager came scuttling up the aisle like a crab toward me. “I got something for you here.” He dropped a plastic name tag in front of me.
I removed my old name tag and put on the new one.
Wendy looked at it and smiled. “Welcome back, Ed. Somebody from Brazil named Sergio has been inhabiting your body. It’s been kind of spooky.”
In spite of the fact I was feeling like dirt, I had to smile.
“He was pretty cute,” Wendy went on, “but he was such a liar. I like you a lot better.”
“Really?” I said, “Why?”
“Because you buy me ice cream and because you make me laugh,” said Wendy. “Be yourself from now on, Ed. Okay? It’s less confusing that way.” She chucked a video at me. “Now go shelve this.”
I snagged it on the fly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Wendy smiled, and it occurred to me what great eyes she has. I gave the video a little flip, then caught it again.
So that’s it. My story about last summer when I learned to be true by suffering the consequences of playing false. The summer I was Sergio.

Recently, I was called as the temple and family history leader in my ward. In the week or so prior, I had been told a calling was on its way. Though I spent a lot of time thinking through what it could be, family history never occurred to me.
Before that meeting with the bishop, I’d done a little family history work—enough to bring some names to the temple and understand how to find them. Thankfully, my wife is passionate about the work and taught me to do it. It wasn’t something I ever spent much time exploring.
Aside from temple work, and bringing names for proxy ordinances, I didn’t see or understand what the work had to do with me or what blessings I could find in the work. To be honest, I had never attempted to liken the activities to myself for my profit and learning. (See 1 Nephi 19:23.)
When I received the calling and was set apart, I knew it was essential that I find out more about family history, how to find things out, what resources are out there for our eternal benefit of both us and our ancestors.
That very same day, as I got more familiar with the FamilySearch website and Ancestry.com, a scripture I had never given much, if any, consideration came alive for me in an unexpected way. “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the LORD:
“And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse” (Malachi 4:5–6).
I was receiving revelation of how to find sources and how to check the information therein. What had previously been a list of names which allowed me to participate in ordinances became a list of real people, with real experiences, with real worth in the eyes of God. Their life stories inspired me to work harder as a disciple of Jesus Christ and to be more dedicated in being a peacemaker. After all, it is pleasing to God when we “dwell together in unity” (Psalm 133:1).
Seeing my relationship links with people on FamilySearch deepened my desire to keep covenants so I could help them receive the ordinances necessary for salvation and exaltation.

As a teenager, Gerrit loved to go backpacking and hiking with the other young men in his ward. Wally Salbacka, a lifelong friend, remembers one camping trip in particular. “I was there with Gerrit and his brother, Brian, and a friend who wasn’t a member of our Church. For some reason, we started singing hymns. Gerrit sang melody, Brian sang tenor, and I sang bass. I think we sang 10 or 20 hymns, just for the joy of singing. It was a good experience. Our nonmember friend was impressed.”

I was born and raised in El Progreso, a small town in Guatemala. When I was about 10 years old, an unusual pamphlet came into my hands. It contained the story of Joseph Smith, a young boy who saw a vision of God the Eternal Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.
I was deeply impressed by this story. Unsatisfied with the training I was receiving in the religion of my parents, I wanted to know more about the boy in the pamphlet. But I didn’t know where to get information. In time I lost the pamphlet, but I never forgot about it. I wondered if I would ever find another like it.
As a teenager and young adult, I investigated several religious denominations. I even took classes in their doctrine and received diplomas. But there were aspects of these religions that troubled me, and I felt uncomfortable with the criticism that clergy of different faiths sometimes directed at one another. By this time I had started reading the Bible, and as I compared the Bible with what I saw in the religions I had studied, I became convinced those religions lacked God’s authority.
I knelt many times in prayer, pleading with God to guide me to His true Church. I promised that if He did, I would be faithful in keeping His commandments and I would always serve Him.
I had dreams, too, in which I told God I was willing to do anything to receive forgiveness for my sins. I would wake up and find my pillow wet with tears. I also asked God to help me find the pamphlet about Joseph Smith again.
By 1968 I had a wife and a son. We moved to Guatemala City so I could find better employment. On 20 November 1975, two young American women, simply dressed, knocked on our door. They said they had a message for my family. We made an appointment for them to come back at a later time.
I remember the first discussion clearly. One of the young women said a prayer, and then the other one began to talk about Joseph Smith. In her hands was a copy of the pamphlet I had read as a boy! My search for the truth had come to an end in my own living room.
No words can express what I felt at that moment. I wanted to snatch the pamphlet out of her hands. The sisters noticed the way I was looking at it and said they would leave it with me. When they gave me that precious pamphlet, I could hardly believe it. I put it in my shirt pocket to keep it near my heart.
Two days later the missionaries returned. When they saw the pamphlet in my pocket, they asked if I had read it. I told them they didn’t realize what it meant to me. I explained I had read it as a boy and had prayed to find it again.
On Sunday our family went to church. We arrived very early, and the sisters were surprised to see us. They hadn’t really invited us, just told us where the building was.
The sisters continued to teach us. Although they didn’t speak Spanish very well, they taught by the Holy Ghost. When they taught us about repentance, I felt something I had never felt before and started to cry. Then I realized we were all crying. I was convinced I had found the true Church.
My wife, Rosa Élida, had a similar experience. It happened when the sisters invited us to be baptized. “Sister Salguero,” they asked, “do you want to follow the Savior?” She realized right then that she did.
When I asked the Lord to help me find His Church, I promised I would serve Him. From the first time I went to church, I have faithfully attended and have tried to serve diligently. I have had many wonderful Church callings, including serving twice as bishop. My wife has served in the Primary and Relief Society and in the family history program. My eldest son served a full-time mission, and now his younger brother is preparing to serve. We have two daughters who are also active in the Church.
Whenever I am asked to speak in church, I try to communicate the joy I feel as a member of the Lord’s Church. I know that God lives and that through the Prophet Joseph Smith He has restored to us His gospel, His Church, and the authority of His priesthood.

When I was eight years old, my dad took my brother and me on a long hike.
As we got closer to the top, my brother and I started asking the questions every parent dreads:
“How much farther?”
“Are we almost there?”
My dad would respond patiently:
“You’re so close!”
“Just 15 more minutes!”
But 15 minutes would pass, and then 15 more. My dad went from encouraging to cajoling to pleading. “Just a little farther,” he’d say, believing it to be true. Even he was surprised we weren’t at the end yet.
When we passed hikers coming down from the top, we eagerly asked how much more walking we had ahead of us.
“You’re so close!” was their encouraging reply. “You’re almost there!”
This happened several times. Eventually, my brother plopped himself down in the middle of the trail, folded his arms, and declared, “I’m not going any farther.”
As we found out on that hiking trail, different people have different opinions. Everyone we met along the trail told us we were “close” to the top, but they all had different ideas of what that meant. Even my wonderful father—who had packed our snacks, filled up our water bottles, and gotten us to the trailhead—had misremembered how long the hike really was. Without an experienced guide, my brother and I became exhausted and frustrated to the point of wanting to give up.
Ultimately, my brother got off the ground and made it to the beautiful lake we’d been walking toward all day. It was a wonderful and worthwhile experience.
But how much better might it have been if we’d known what to expect? The hike wouldn’t have been any shorter or less steep, but we would have been better prepared. As President Nelson explained, “Overcoming the world … makes everything about life easier,” even if it doesn’t necessarily make everything easy.7

In that same inner-city ward I observed a similar type of faith in the gentle, loving care of a bishop who wasted no time despairing over the vast needs of an ever-growing number of new converts. Rather, he pressed forward by rallying the more experienced members of the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthood quorums to help prepare new converts from Africa and Latin America for their priesthood responsibilities. The newer brethren were taught how to hold the trays while passing the sacrament, how to kneel and reverently bless the bread and water. Their more seasoned, often younger brethren practiced along with them the words of the sacramental prayers so they would feel confident in giving them. Then, together, all the brethren discussed the sacred nature of this important priesthood ordinance.

Walking through town one June afternoon on my way to a business meeting, I was prompted to stop and look inside a tavern’s open door. All I could see was a long bar and a row of stools. I turned and left. I had no interest in being in such a place; in fact, I did not want to be in such a place. But as I continued walking up the street, I had the strongest feeling that I should return and investigate further.
Curious, I turned around, walked back to the tavern, and looked through the doorway. “This is rather a foolish thing to do,” I thought, especially when I saw only the bartender behind the bar. So I continued in my walk. But as I waited at the corner for the traffic light to change, I felt an even stronger prompting to go back to the tavern. I went back.
The tavern appeared empty. Even the bartender wasn’t in the room. I walked toward the rear of the room. Then I noticed the figure of a man in the corner, seated on a stool and hunched over the glass in front of him. Something seemed familiar about the ragged, unshaven face.
I moved closer, and the memory of someone from my past came to me. The man was about the right size, small and rather frail. Could it be Deuce? (His real name was Dwayne.) I hadn’t seen Deuce for almost eighteen years. But how could he be in this condition? “Deuce, Deuce is that you?” I asked. The man look around vaguely but didn’t respond. “Deuce, what are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s you!”
But it was him. We had been close friends in our teenage years.
Deuce and his twin brother, Ace, had had a good relationship with their parents but had received little guidance from them. Their father had been a hard-working barber who had cared for his lovable but alcoholic wife.
Deuce had had polio as a child, which left him with a bad limp and impaired use of one arm. A couple of serious accidents as a teenager left him having to use a cane. But these handicaps only seemed to concentrate his ability to paint. He was a talented oil painter and took his work very seriously. His paintings were vivid and life-like; I still remember his painting of a tiger that seemed to leap from the canvas.
I lost contact with Deuce when I went into the navy for several years. I had heard that Ace had also joined the navy and was subsequently reported missing.
“Huh! Who’s that?” Deuce responded sluggishly.
“It’s Richard, your old friend!”
His eyes lit with vague recognition. He looked as if he might cry. He was obviously in bad shape physically, and it appeared that he hadn’t been eating regularly. I finally convinced him that I was real and coaxed him off the bar stool. He could barely walk, even with the walker he now used. I took him to a nearby restaurant, where I got him to eat a little food. As he began to talk more sensibly, I discovered that he had no money and was sharing a room in a cheap hotel.
“Look, Deuce, I’m really late for an important appointment, but I want to spend some time with you,” I said, before taking him to his hotel with instructions to bathe and shave. Later, I picked up a change of clothes for him at a men’s store and returned to help him dress. We drove home, and I introduced him to my wife, Verna.
I related the story of our reunion during dinner, and then told Verna of my earlier friendship and boyhood experiences with Deuce and his family.
By then, he was quite clear in his thinking and was able to tell the harrowing story of how he had been driven to his present condition.
He described the shock of losing his twin brother. Several years later, his mother had died of alcoholism, and then his father had been killed in an automobile accident. Working as a commercial artist, he had tried to forget his problems by drinking. He eventually lost his job and lived on a small disability pension. This downward trend in his life had continued for many years. He had given up all hope and had been in total despair when I found him.
After I took him back to his hotel, Verna and I talked long into the night about his situation and possible solutions. He was obviously incapable of helping himself. “We can’t leave him where he is!” Verna said.
“But what can we do?” I asked.
“If nothing else, we’ll just have to bring him here,” she replied.
The next day at work, I couldn’t get Deuce off of my mind. In the afternoon I went searching for him. He was confused by my invitation, but agreed to come and live with my family. We gathered up his few possessions and went home.
It was a big decision for my family—not because we didn’t have room, but because having a strange man around the house was awkward at first, even if he was harmless. He was, in fact, quite pathetic. He had to use his walker to get around, and because his bedroom was in the basement, getting up and down the stairs several times a day was a tremendous challenge.
My family soon accepted Deuce. Good food, rest, companionship, and love helped him recover. The children loved him because he was so gentle and understanding. But the effects of the years of alcoholism were hard to overcome. His physical impairments and extreme loss of normal movement made recovery difficult and total recovery impossible. For the first month, he was content to just recuperate. At times, he tried to help the children with chores or Verna with household tasks, but he was too shaky and unstable.
Deuce often wanted alcohol, but Verna and I firmly refused him any, and there was no way he could get it himself. Frequently, he would break out in a cold sweat and shake. But with no additional alcohol to reinforce what was already in his system, he eventually gained control of himself.
With his recovery came restlessness, and Deuce decided that he should try to again develop his former talent. I built him a special heavy-duty easel that would not only hold the canvas but also help steady him, since he was still very shaky.
It had been years since he had painted, and he was disappointed and frustrated with his first attempts. But eventually he was able to paint a sea scene for Verna to show his gratitude. Many paintings followed, and I helped him sell a few of them. His former talent, however, never fully returned.
He soon became very much a part of our family. And although he had never been religious, he started coming to church with us. Verna and I had joined the Church after we were married, and Deuce was impressed with the obvious changes he had seen in me. He met with the missionaries and was baptized. The doctrines of the Church excited him, especially the idea of being resurrected to a whole and fit body, and the promise of being with his family again.
Although he found his new faith stimulating and enjoyed his new experiences, he felt concerned about being a burden on our family. He knew, however, that his limited capabilities restricted him from ever being independent again.
About this time, a second miraculous reunion occurred. On one of my monthly business trips to Portland, Oregon, approximately four hundred kilometers from our home in Seattle, Washington, I checked into a hotel I had never used before. To my amazement, the luggage attendant that assisted me with my bags was Deuce’s long-lost twin brother, whom we had believed to be dead.
Ace was overjoyed to see an old friend and to learn the whereabouts of his twin brother. A reunion was quickly arranged, and Ace, divorced and living alone, welcomed the opportunity to provide a home for Deuce.
My family kept close contact with “Uncle Deuce” until his death, prematurely brought on by his frailties and years of drinking. But he had found the gospel and had made many wholesome and eternal friendships.

As I was preparing to be baptized in eastern Argentina in December 1955, my branch president advised me, among other things, to ask forgiveness of those I might have offended, pay any debts, and return anything I had that didn’t belong to me. I admitted to him that I had owed a debt for half a bicycle for more than 20 years.
When I was 18 years old, I had worked part time as a photographer. I earned very little—just enough for food and to help my parents a bit. I had longed to have my own bicycle ever since I was a small boy, but we never seemed to have the money to buy one.
Luckily, my brother knew the Zuzci family. They were selling a very nice bicycle for a reasonable price. I had to pay half the money before getting the bike, and I could pay the rest later. When I had saved the first half, I went to their house and bought the bike.
To tell the truth, I had no intention of ever paying the rest of the money. I was poor and lived in humble circumstances; the Zuzcis were rich and enjoyed a fine home. I thought they would soon forget about the small amount of money I owed them.
As the years went by, I continued my education, became an optical technician, and eventually bought my own optical shop. My financial situation greatly improved. But I always avoided passing by the Zuzci house. My conscience was not clear about that bicycle!
Later in life, I felt a great desire to search for God. Now I had found Him and wanted to join His Church.
I was 38 years old when I made my way to the house I had avoided so many times. When the door opened, Mrs. Zuzci stood before me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Zuzci. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, Mr. Blanc. How could I forget you?”
“Then you remember,” I said, “that I still owe you money for a bicycle I bought 20 years ago.”
“I remember, Mr. Blanc—as if it had happened yesterday,” she answered.
I told her of my decision to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “I ask your forgiveness,” I said. “I know that 20 years have gone by. I am willing to pay whatever you feel the debt is worth today.”
I could see tears forming in Mrs. Zuzci’s eyes. She said I was doing a beautiful thing and forgave me my debt. Then we both wept. What a beautiful spirit we felt to finally have the issue of the bicycle debt resolved!

“I began my career by chasing my sons,” she quips. And it’s literally true. Her two younger sons, she has six children, had taken up running and, concerned at age thirty-seven about her own fitness, she began jogging with them. In 1963 “the Big Walk became the rage in the Transvaal,” and Mavis found herself becoming “one of the top lady walkers in the country.” She liked it—the competition, the continually increasing endurance and discipline, and the self-discovery.

Mavis had never thought of herself as athletic. Her father, George Vaughn, was a runner and rugby player in Kimberly, site of “the biggest manmade hole on earth,” where he worked for a diamond-mining company. Yet Mavis, a nervous child, suffered from chorea (St. Vitus’s dance) in her early teens that left her bedridden for three months on three separate occasions. Running was an unexpected development in the life of Mrs. Ernest Hutchison of Johannesburg, the mother of six children, and now the grandmother of seven.

From walking, she branched out into cross-country running and worked hard to get the Republic of South Africa to recognize women’s cross-country as a legitimate sport. She was rewarded in the usual way by getting more work to do; she was appointed to manage the first women’s team to represent South Africa abroad, touring the United Kingdom in 1969.

By then she was working seriously on her running and signed up for “one of the most gruelling marathons in the world,” the Comrades’ Marathon which starts 760 meters above sea level at Pietermaritzburg and runs through “87 kilometers of breath-taking scenery to the coastal city of Durban.” This is “the down run.” The “up run,” held in alternate years, begins at Durban and climbs breathlessly to Pietermaritzburg.

By then, running had become a way of life. She challenged herself more, pushed herself harder, and then, in 1978, faced the two greatest challenges of her life. One challenge was to run completely across the United States. The other was to accept the message of the Mormon missionaries.

She met the missionaries just before she left for the United States and asked them to come back because “I was frantic with last-minute preparations.”

Standing on the steps of the Los Angeles City Hall on 12 March 1978 she knew she was facing “the greatest challenge of my life” both spiritually and physically. “It was my greatest ambition, but I felt so apprehensive. Would I really be able to do it? What lay ahead of me? Was I strong enough? Had I prepared properly? I wished I’d had enough sense to have stayed at home.”

Then the clock struck nine and she was off. Followed by two vans, Mavis ran fourteen hours a day, starting at 4 A.M. and stopping only for meals. She ran through thirteen states, through four time zones. She took six million footsteps, one at time. She wore twenty-five pairs of shoes in rotation, and had repairs made forty times.

The weather, almost systematically, hit her with every variation. For four weeks she slogged through intense heat. For the next four weeks, she struggled through gale-force winds—that literally blew her off her feet more than once—and bitter cold, staggering along under the weight of two tracksuits, a soft, flat cap with no visor, gloves, and a lightweight jacket the wind can’t blow through. Then it rained without stopping for seven days. One raincoat would keep her dry for exactly one hour; she wore two. Together, they kept her dry for four hours.

The weather was not her only challenge. “The traffic was frightening,” she exclaimed. At one dangerous stretch, cars were whizzing past every seven seconds. She stopped running only one day—the thirty-third—when shin splints made it impossible to continue. The next day, teeth gritted and literally dragging her right foot, she was back on the road.

“I prayed often for courage to bear the pain,” she remembers. “I didn’t ask God to take it away, but just to help me bear it.” She prayed often throughout the journey: “‘Please God, give me the stamina to fight the wind, the endurance to continue the distance I need to go, the willpower to keep going.’ At no time did I ever doubt that I would finish the distance, but I can assure you that there were times when I didn’t know how I could finish the day or even the next hour. And then I prayed, in the words of John Henry Newman’s beautiful hymn, ‘Please, God, I do not ask to see the distant scene. One step enough for me.’” (“Lead Kindly Light”, No. 112).

Finally the weather relented, and “the last two days were the most beautiful imaginable.” She trotted into New York and landed at the city hall just before noon on May 20, the only woman in history to have run from the Pacific Coast to the Atlantic Coast across the U.S.. Exhilarated from the run, after sixty-nine days, two hours, and forty minutes, she was surprised that it was over, “It came too suddenly,” she said.

Was it worth it? “Yes! I grew beyond my wildest dreams. I learned that nothing is impossible if you’re prepared to work hard enough. Age is irrelevant. There are no barriers and no handicaps. And you must do it yourself. No one can run for you. I also learned that failure is important. From it we learn discipline, patience, perseverance, and the ability to accept disappointments.”

In some real though not yet understood ways, that gruelling run had prepared her for the gospel. The open road “opened my mind and heart to the hidden reaches of a hidden existence. I was ready to discover myself.” Beyond the fear of failure and the pain of the hard work lay an unshakable sense of self, a self that honored the truth and despised sham. And the “purifying solitude” of long runs had given her an instinct for joy.

The chance to plunge into another layer of self-discovery came within a month of her return to Johannesburg. Two missionaries—different ones—called on her. She participated enthusiastically in the six discussions, “sure that they would keep coming indefinitely since I so greatly enjoyed their visits.” But when they asked her if she would be baptized on the next Saturday, “I was completely stunned, I made sure that I was lousy the next Saturday—and the next, and the next.”

But she knew too much about herself now to avoid this second great challenge. “I knew I was just making excuses. I also knew that if I choice not to join the Church I would lose my way again, for I knew there was light in my life that hadn’t been there before.”

The clarity of the decision she must make did not make it any easier. She would have to be baptized alone, the only member of her family to join the Church. She would be changing her life-style for a third time. These things would hurt. But she prayed and “felt the Spirit of Heavenly Father telling me that I must do the right thing.” The Spirit also whispered “that only I could make the choice.”

She made her decision. On 30 September 1978 at 4:30 P.M., she was waiting in Ramah Chapel for her turn to be baptized. It was emotionally a repeat of her experience in Los Angeles. “There were many people being baptized with me. They all looked so calm, so sure, and so radiantly happy. I was very nervous and very unsure and, at that moment, very unhappy. Had I prepared properly? Was I doing the fight thing? It was an enormous commitment—would I be able to keep it?”

And was joining the Church worth it? Again, yes! “I know that I made the right decision. I know there will be many times when I will pray for strength merely to take the next step, but I knew, after I was baptized, that I could get to the end of the road. This is the most important journey of my life.”

Since her baptism she has served as Sunday School secretary, Relief Society social relations leader and visiting teacher, and—naturally—as athletic adviser to the Activities Committee.

I would also like to share my own experience with this principle and hope that my experience may relate to some of you and give you some insight as well. You will notice a theme from me as my next example is also about baseball. When I was younger, there were a few instances that I remember where I had a goal, a vision, if you will, of what I wanted to accomplish. This goal or vision served as a guide for me to keep me focused on the path that would lead me to my end goal. That goal was to become a college and professional baseball player. This “end in mind” was the motivation I utilized to guide my daily decisions and commitment to becoming a skilled and higher-level baseball player. I knew that each day I needed to train, get reps, work with coaches, and maintain my physical condition in order to reach the end I had in mind.

Knowing what I wanted to accomplish made it easier for me to take the necessary steps and do the necessary work to achieve my end goals in baseball. Through daily routines focused on my growth as a baseball player, I was able to have a successful high school baseball career, which led me to play baseball at BYU in Provo, and eventually play in the Colorado Rockies Farm system. Now this is where things get choppy. Although I played in the minor leagues, I never made it to the major leagues, but I was still able to achieve the end in mind. You might be asking yourself, ‘How is that?’ when I didn’t get to the Big Leagues. Let me explain. When we begin with the end in mind, we have a vision, and we set goals, and we work toward that vision. What happens in between is where the real growth and progression happens. Our paths may not be perfect or straight, and we will need to pivot or adapt. After four years of professional baseball, I felt I was needed for something bigger, my eternal family. So, I decided to hang it up and focus on my eternal end in mind—my eternal family. Ending my baseball career was my choice, and quitting baseball did not ultimately change the end I had in mind, in fact it fostered it. Although my worldly end in mind was to make it to the Big Leagues my eternal end in mind has always been the eternities with my family. And for me, I needed to prioritize that. This shift in career paths was a natural one, and one that my years of baseball prepared me for. Years of hard work and commitment to my baseball career gave me the soft skills I needed to complete college and change my career path.

During my athletic journey, I developed skills including hard work, mental toughness, determination, grit, teamwork, leadership, communication, and patience. Through baseball, I learned to do hard things and to face challenges with determination. These skills are crucial for success on the field and translated well to various professional environments. For me, they translated into an ability to complete college and to earn a bachelor’s and master’s degree in accounting. It also translated into doing hard things along my career path, like taking on challenges completely beyond my comfort zone and learning new skills I had little previous experience in doing. My ‘plan A’ pivoted to ‘plan B’ and eventually led to ‘plan C’. All of which promoted and supported my ultimate end in mind—my eternal family. To begin with the end in mind will most always involve some type of pivoting and adapting along the way. I truly believe that if we are prayerful and earnest in our efforts, these pivots will work toward our ultimate end in mind.

Elder Soares: I remember what a challenge it was during those first five years after marriage when we were trying to have children.
Sister Soares: Those years were very difficult. I couldn’t get pregnant.
Elder Soares: We had many health challenges after so much effort. That’s when we received a priesthood blessing. Later you had a surgery, and a few months later …
Sister Soares: Our dream came true.
Elder Soares: You got pregnant.
Sister Soares: We trusted so much in the Lord, and we recognized tangible blessings. It was not easy for the two of us, who were so inexperienced, but it has also been marvelous.
Elder Soares: While we were dealing with life, the Lord provided for our spiritual needs, giving us the peace that we needed, the comfort and ability to work, to continue on, to finish our education. It was a significant time in our lives that completely changed the direction of everything we thought we’d be doing.