Gospel Story Finder

When I was born, I was given the name of Ronald A. Rasband. My last name honors my father’s ancestral line. The middle initial A was given to me to remind me to honor my mother’s Danish Anderson ancestry.
My great-great-grandfather Jens Anderson was from Denmark. And in 1861 the Lord led two Mormon missionaries to the Jens and Ane Cathrine Anderson home, where the missionaries introduced them and their 16-year-old son, Andrew, to the restored gospel. Thus began a legacy of faith of which my family and I are the beneficiaries. The Andersons read the Book of Mormon and were baptized a short time later. The following year, the Anderson family heeded the call of a prophet to cross the Atlantic to join the Saints in North America.
Sadly, Jens died on the ocean voyage, but his wife and son continued to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving on September 3, 1862. Despite their hardships and their heartaches, their faith never wavered, and neither has the faith of many of their descendants.
In my office hangs a painting that captures so beautifully a symbolic reminder of that first meeting between my ancestors and those dedicated early missionaries. I am determined not to forget my heritage, and because of my name I will forever remember their legacy of faithfulness and sacrifice.

I have recently thought about influences in my life that have developed my convictions about the human body and about my body in particular. Growing up on a farm in southeastern Idaho provided me with many opportunities to develop and test my physical body. While I was very young, one of my chores was to get up early and run to the pasture to bring the cows into the milk barn. I got up at five o’clock—that habit has stuck with me all of my life. This daily activity—considered a chore by others—was a wonderful experience for me as I ran through the pasture, jumping the ditches, dodging the gopher holes, skipping, leaping, changing movement patterns, finding new routes to travel, and finding the exhilaration of the body moving through the atmosphere. I also remember the wonderful inner feeling I received when I first noticed that the cows were interested in my physical entrance into their presence. Old Pet, the leader of the herd, would be the first, and soon the entire herd would watch my antics as I rounded them up.

I knew a young woman who was taught the gospel and who wanted to join the Church but who was having trouble with the Word of Wisdom. She used cigarettes and coffee, and the thought of never having another cigarette or cup of coffee in her whole life overwhelmed her. One of the missionaries told her to try it for just one day, and then just one more day. She found that by living it a day at a time she could make it, and she was soon baptized. The same would be true in changing any bad habit for a good one.

Jody had five older brothers and sisters. When Jody was little, being the youngest was fun because she got special attention. But now that Jody was getting bigger, being the youngest sometimes meant being overlooked.
For example, today when Jody came home from school she had lots of exciting things to tell her mother, but Mom was busy in the garage helping Jody’s brother Derek repair his bike. Later, before dinner, Jody’s oldest sister, Lisa, was in the kitchen with Mom. Lisa was helping fix dinner, chatting endlessly about boys. After dinner, Jody’s sister Amber needed help with her math homework. Then it was time for family prayer, and Jody was off to bed.
On days like these, Jody was grateful she had her secret journal friend. That night she wrote:
Dear Secret Journal Friend,
I wish I could spend more time with Mom. She is always busy with the family, but I wanted to tell her about school today. I got 100 percent on my spelling test, we did gymnastics in P.E., and in art, I made a beautiful flower out of tissue paper. I like my teacher a lot, but I love my mom.
Your friend,
Jody
Jody felt better when she had finished writing. She put the journal next to her bed, said her prayers, and went to sleep.
The next day, when Jody got home from school, her mother wasn’t there. Lisa told her that their sister, Ellen, who shared a room with Jody, had gotten sick and Mom had taken her to the doctor.
When Jody went into her bedroom to drop off her backpack she saw her journal on her pillow. She opened the journal and read the reply from her secret journal friend.
Dear Jody,
Your mom loves you very much too, and wants to spend more time with you. Why don’t you invite her out for ice cream on Friday night? You know how much she likes rainbow sherbet.
From,
Your Secret Journal Friend
Jody smiled. The ice cream was a good idea. It sounded like fun. But right now Jody was worried about her sister. She wanted to do something to make her feel better.
Jody took out her pencil and wrote:
Dear Secret Journal Friend,
I am sorry that Ellen is sick. I want to give her my tissue-paper flower, even though I made it for Mom. Do you think Mom would mind?
Your friend,
Jody
Then Jody remembered something else she was feeling bad about and wrote:
P.S. Today in art I got mad at my friend, Sara, because she spilled my paints. I even pulled her hair. Later I told her I was sorry. Will you still be my friend even when I do bad things?
The next day after school Jody found Ellen resting in their bedroom and gave her the brightly colored flower. Ellen’s eyes lit up and she grinned.
“Thanks, Jody,” Ellen said. “It’s really pretty. It makes me feel cheerful just looking at it.”
Jody smiled. Then she sat down on her bed and started reading her journal.
“What are you doing?” Ellen asked.
“I’m reading a message from my secret journal friend,” Jody told her.
“Your secret friend?” Ellen asked. “I think I saw your secret friend writing in your journal today. Do you want me to tell you who it is?”
“No thanks,” Jody responded. She took her journal out to the living room couch so she could be alone. She sat down and read:
Dear Jody,
I’m sure your mother won’t mind you giving away her flower. She will be very proud of you for being such a thoughtful sister.
From,
Your Secret Journal Friend
(who loves you always, NO MATTER WHAT)
Jody turned to a blank page, thought for a moment, then wrote:
Dear Secret Journal Friend,
Ellen liked the flower. I’m glad I gave it to her. Last night I prayed that she would feel better, and now she does!
I used to wonder how Heavenly Father can hear everyone’s prayers when there are so many people in the world, but now I think I know. Because Heavenly Father loves us no matter what, He will always find a way to answer our prayers.
Then Jody wrote in extra big letters:
I LOVE YOU, MOM!
Thanks for being my secret friend and my mother.
Love,
Jody
P.S. Don’t forget—tonight is ice-cream night!

I remember attending a meeting near Bancroft, Idaho, years ago. It was sponsored in part by the extension service of the University. We’d had a wonderful meeting, and after it was over, I was greeting some of the wonderful farmers who were there, and among them was a man by the name of Brother Yost, and I said, “Brother Yost, how are things out on the farm?” Brother Yost said, “Oh, things are fine, Brother Benson, but I’m about 20 thousand dollars worse off than I was three days ago.” I said, “What’s the matter—another frost?” He said, “Yes, it hit the wheat just in the dough stage, and you know what that means.” He said, “We’re starting the mowing machines in the morning, but everything’s all right. We’ve still got a little wheat in the bin, and we’ve got at least part of our year’s supply laid away. We’re not going to starve, and there’ll be another crop.” As we left him, I said to my wife, “What a wonderful spirit.”

We drove on down to Logan. We had our children with us, and we stopped on Main Street to go into a grocery store to pick up a few cookies for the kiddies. And who should I meet on the sidewalk but Brother Yost. I said, “Well, what are you doing way down here?” He said, “Brother Benson, it’s our day to go to the temple.” And I said, “Well, reverses don’t dampen your spirits any, do they?” Then he taught me a lesson. He said, “Brother Benson, when reverses come we need the temple all the more.”

There was one episode depicted on the records that would nearly bring tears to my eyes as my companion and I would listen to it over and over again. It was the account of Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball leaving their wives, children, and humble homes to journey to Great Britain in response to their mission calls to that faraway land. Heber C. Kimball records the event in these words:
“‘September 14th, … President Brigham Young left his home at Montrose to start on the mission to England. He was so sick that he was unable to go to the Mississippi, a distance of thirty rods, without assistance. After he had crossed the river he rode behind Israel Barlow on his horse to my house, where he continued sick until the 18th. He left his wife sick with a babe only three weeks old, and all of his other children were sick and unable to wait upon each other. Not one soul of them was able to go to the well for a pail of water, and they were without a second suit to their backs, for the mob in Missouri had taken nearly all he had. On the 17th, Sister Mary Ann Young got a boy to carry her up in his wagon to my house, that she might nurse and comfort Brother Brigham to the hour of starting.
“‘September 18th, Charles Hubbard sent his boy with a wagon and span of horses to my house; our trunks were put into the wagon by some brethren; I went to my bed and shook hands with my wife who was then shaking with a chill, having two children lying sick by her side; I embraced her and my children, and bade them farewell. My only well child was little Heber P., and it was with difficulty he could carry a couple of quarts of water at a time to assist in quenching their thirst.
“‘It was with difficulty we got into the wagon, and started down the hill about ten rods; it appeared to me as though my very inmost parts would melt within me at leaving my family in such a condition, as it were almost in the arms of death. I felt as though I could not endure it. I asked the teamster to stop, and said to Brother Brigham, “This is pretty tough, isn’t it; let’s rise up and give them a cheer.” We arose, and swinging our hats three times over our heads, shouted: “Hurrah, hurrah for Israel.” Vilate, hearing the noise, arose from her bed and came to the door. She had a smile on her face. Vilate and Mary Ann Young cried out to us: “Goodbye, God bless you!” We returned the compliment, and then told the driver to go ahead. After this I felt a spirit of joy and gratitude, having had the satisfaction of seeing my wife standing upon her feet, instead of leaving her in bed, knowing well that I should not see them again for two or three years’” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1967, pp. 265–66).
I have often wondered how these brethren, as valiant as they were, could do what they did. Truly they were willing to make any sacrifice asked of them to build the kingdom of God. They were laying up “treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt” (Matt. 6:20).
There is something else about this story, however, that has always intrigued me. As Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball left on their missions to Great Britain, there appeared to be a lot of support from their brethren to help them on their way. Israel Barlow assisted Brigham Young across the Mississippi River. Later, Charles Hubbard sent his son with a wagon to the Kimball home to assist the two missionaries as they began their long journey.
If we look carefully at this story, we catch a glimpse of the unity that must have existed among the Saints in those early days. As husbands and fathers would leave for missionary service, their departure was made easier because they knew that brothers, sisters, priesthood leaders, and friends would step in to help fill the void created by their absence.
These brethren were able to invest in building the kingdom of God in faraway lands because they knew that others would be investing in building the kingdom at home by helping their loved ones whenever assistance was needed. There was a unique bonding, a special faith in the community of Saints, dedicated to a common goal, a common purpose. If we return to Jacob’s counsel to his people, we see the same message communicated as he instructed them to be familiar with all and to share freely of their substance (see Jacob 2:17).

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to the family car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told of an experience he’d had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice had told him to take a different route home, one that would add about ten miles to his trip. Although he had been eager to get back home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a rollover accident. A young family had been traveling a long way to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving the car, fell asleep, the car had drifted too close to the side of the road and had rolled off a steep embankment. Brother Johnson was able to help the young family by calling for help on the phone he carried in his car and by administering first-aid to the father, who had some serious cuts and bruises.
Bishop Benson told how he had been prompted by the Holy Ghost to check on Sister Henderson during the week. Sister Henderson was a widow who lived about two miles up a dirt road off the main highway into town. When the bishop went to see her, he found that her furnace had broken down. She didn’t have a telephone and was no longer able to drive, so she had prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The still, small voice had told her that all would be well.
Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, had given a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice had warned her to check on her sleeping child. When she did, it appeared that everything was all right. But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked more closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had somehow fallen. Most of the glass and the frame had fallen behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that following his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Melinda excitedly started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher just sadly stared at the floor of the car.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Melinda quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as the car turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know that the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen, Son,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell that you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get into trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person who ever lived on the earth was Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember that good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain and after telling us the truth? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time when we were reading from the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was really talking about in the parable about the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“Wow! I never thought about it that way before!”
“And,” said Mom, “remember when you got lost in the shopping mall last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling letting you know what to do was also the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him, even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I couldn’t remember it. Then I said a quick, little prayer, and suddenly my talk came back to me. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember things is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“Wow! Now I understand! All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!”

Monday evening the family went to the chuck wagon races at the Calgary Stampede. President Benson watched with the keen eye of a lifelong horseman as the chuck wagon teams careened around the track in a cloud of dust and tangle of wagons, horses, and outriders. A constant stream of LDS Scouts who were visiting from the nearby international jamboree came to shake the Apostle’s hand, and he graciously turned away from the spectacle to greet them warmly. Afterward there was a stage show honoring Canada, and then the night became noon as fireworks blossomed in new constellations overhead. The family laughed and joked and cheered. The best part of the evening was just being together.

In contrast, selflessness builds strong, loving relationships. Several years before his death, former Brigham Young University president Rex E. Lee was hospitalized for five months with cancer. His wife, Janet, was at his side virtually every day. When he “was so sick that he couldn’t even read his favorite literature—[U.S.] Supreme Court cases—Janet read the cases aloud to him while tenderly rubbing his bare feet. In a multitude of such moments, the roots of their love, including their affection, stretched ever deeper. President Lee said he knew Janet loved him before, but now their love has a depth they could not otherwise know” (Bruce C. and Marie K. Hafen, “‘Bridle All Your Passions,’” Ensign, February 1994, 17).

Many years ago when I received my call to serve a mission, I had an interesting experience. I knew that I needed to serve a mission, but I couldn’t get a type of confirmation. I was still wondering why. It was in the fall months, with about a month before I left on my mission. I was out hiking in the mountains in central Utah. My friends were back in college or on missions. I decided to kneel down and pray about my concerns. I think that I thought that I would have a Joseph Smith experience. I didn’t. In fact, it was about six months later when I was in Brazil that I received an answer. We were teaching a second discussion – it was on the Book of Mormon. My turn came to share my testimony. As I bore my testimony, another feeling or prompting came to me. It was the answer to the prayer. You are here to share with these people the same blessings that you have had in your life. That blessing is the gospel of Jesus Christ.

A few years ago, when President Kimball was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, he and Sister Kimball were touring missions overseas.

A change in the airline schedule found them, along with a mission president and his wife, in a cold and drafty airport, late at night, with no place to go but wait for an early morning flight.

Sister Kimball had her coat, but the mission president’s wife did not. President Kimball tried to give her his coat, but she would not take it. As they began to fall asleep on those hard benches, President Kimball got up and gently put his coat over the sleeping wife of the mission president. This kind of selfless concern for others is how President Kimball has lived his life. This is the same leader we sustain today as prophet, seer, and revelator. This is the man whom God has called to lead nearly six million Latter-day Saints.

He has literally spent his life in taking off his coat, so to speak, and putting it around the shoulders of those he judged to be in greater need: people of all colors and creeds; men, women, and children. It has never made any difference to him. All are his brothers. All are his sisters.

I was running the last quarter mile to the high school when a bit of gravel worked its way into my left shoe, bringing me limping to a halt at the curb. I yanked off my shoe and dumped the pea-size rock on the pavement. I glanced down the street and saw my cross-country teammates approaching a block away. We were finishing up the last leg of our afternoon workout.
“You run like the wind, man.” A slightly slurred voice startled me.
I turned to see a slovenly dressed man grinning at me from under the elm tree at the corner. I noticed immediately his missing front tooth, his vacant, bloodshot blue eyes and his long, straight blond hair hanging out from under a dirty, faded baseball cap. Catching the faint trace of alcohol in the air, I pushed myself to my feet to hurry on.
“Like the wind,” he repeated. His grin widened. “Or maybe,” he added, “you run more like a breeze.”
I brushed him off, figuring the guy was probably too wasted to walk the 200 yards to the track, much less try to run.
“For your information, man, I was the cross-country state champion here in Snowflake,” he said. “No one could beat me. I was a wind nobody messed with. I wasn’t just a little breeze.”
His comment rankled me even though I knew the alcohol was speaking more loudly than the man.
Several days later I saw the man on the same corner. He flashed a grin and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. “Hey, man. You’re still at it,” he called out, waving at me as I passed. “I’ve had too much to drink or I’d pace you.”
The next Saturday morning Dad and I were in the yard raking the leaves out of the garden and trimming the bushes when a beat-up ‘74 Ford pickup rattled to the curb. A woman with stringy brown hair was driving. On the passenger side a man sat slumped with his baseball cap pulled down over his face. The woman climbed from the truck. “Are you interested in us hauling your clippings away?”
Dad set his rake down and considered the offer.
I returned to my work when someone called out, “Hey, if it ain’t the breeze!” I looked up. I recognized the man inside the truck as the guy by the school.
“The breeze is raking leaves today.” He smiled. “We’ll haul you and your old man’s trash to the dump for $25. My rock-bottom deal to a fellow runner.”
He turned to the woman and was about to speak when he saw Dad. For a moment he stared, his mouth hanging open. He looked from me to Dad and then back to Dad. “Sam Davidson!” he said in obvious amazement. “This kid’s your son?”
Taken back, I glanced toward Dad, who stood surprised and a bit embarrassed. “You remember me, Sam?” he asked Dad.
“Rex?” Dad questioned. “Rex Manning?”
He laughed, stepping to Dad and pumping his hand warmly. “Summer,” he announced, turning to his wife, “we’ll haul their stuff for $15. This is Sam Davidson, the skinny kid that chased me to the state championship. And this is his son. What’s your name, kid?”
“Joseph.”
“He looks like you, Sam.”
Dad agreed to Rex’s deal, and Rex and his wife drove off.
“You know him?” I asked Dad.
Dad stared after them. “I knew him. We ran cross-country together. Rex Manning.” He said his name with respect. “What a guy!” he whispered. “I hate to see him like that.”
“Could he really run?” I questioned, my doubt obvious.
Dad chuckled, remembering. “Twenty-three years ago he was cold sober, trim, and as gutsy as they come. He could run forever and hardly break a sweat. I would have had two gold medals had Rex not beaten me when I was a junior.”
“That’s the guy who beat you your junior year? What happened to him?”
Dad looked away and heaved a sigh. “What happens to a lot of guys?”
The following Wednesday I had a meet in Holbrook. My top challenger in the state was Dennis LaDuke, a kid from Holbrook. I led LaDuke over the entire course. Maybe that was my mistake. With the finish line less than 200 yards ahead of me, LaDuke made his move and beat me by three seconds.
“You’re barely at midseason, Joseph,” Dad said, trying to console me that evening. “All you have to do is shave three and a half seconds off your time.”
“You know how hard that can be, Dad?” I grumbled.
“You need a Rex Manning to push you,” Dad remarked.
“What do you mean I need a Rex Manning?”
A couple of days later I was warming up when I spotted Rex leaning against the elm tree. All during my workout I had thought of LaDuke and those three-and-a-half seconds. I’m not sure I was actually serious when I first panted over to Rex.
“Hey, man, you still pounding the pavement?” he greeted me in his jovial way.
“Dad said you were the best runner he ever knew,” I said.
Rex’s smile faded. “That was a long time ago, kid. I’ve had a whole lot of booze since then.” There was genuine sadness and regret in his simple confession.
“Dad said you helped him run faster than everybody.”
“Sam was fast. He beat everybody—but me.”
“Help me run.” I didn’t smile. “Only one guy, Dennis LaDuke, is faster than me.”
A gray shadow dimmed Rex’s features. “I’m a loser, kid. I don’t run no more. I drink too much. Sometimes I can’t even walk.”
“Just help me cut a few seconds off my time.”
Rex didn’t answer. He just stood there solemnly, ignoring me as though I had never spoken. After a moment I jogged away from him, leaving him to his memories and his hurt.
The following Monday I trotted out to the track to warm up. Rex Manning was sitting in the bleachers. He stood and waved as I ambled over to him. The first thing I noticed was that he was sober. “You going to help me shave those three-and-a-half seconds from my time?”
Rex snorted. “We’re taking off ten seconds so you can beat everybody—including this LaDuke.”
At first Coach Spaulding was a bit hesitant having Rex around. But one day at the track changed that impression. Rex ceased being an old, out-of-shape drunk. He became an expert.
Rex worked at one of the mills outside of town and was usually off by 3:30. In the past it had been his practice to stop at the bar on the edge of town after work. But once he started coming to workouts, he postponed his stop at the bar and headed directly to the track. A week later, Rex took me to a wash that cut along the west side of town. Sinking into the soft sandy wash bottom up to my ankles, I waited for Rex to tell me what to do. He sat in the shade of a cedar and ordered me to do wind sprints in the sand. It didn’t take long before my tongue was hanging out and sweat was pouring down my face.
But seeing my exhaustion only increased Rex’s intensity. Soon he had me racing through the cedars toward a steep knoll a mile away. He gave me instructions: On the west side of the knoll I would find a narrow path that zig-zagged to the top of the knoll. I was to take that path and race up and down the knoll five times. From a distance it didn’t look very steep, but once I reached it and started challenging that knoll, I discovered that my efforts in the sandy wash bottom had been a mere warm-up for the rest of the afternoon.
By the end of that first day, exhaustion took on a whole new meaning. That night at dinner I whined to Dad about what had happened.
Dad looked across the table at me. “Sounds like Rex still has his old drive.” He smiled.
“I’ll bet he never worked like he made me work today.”
Dad set his fork down. “Who do you think made those trails you jogged on this afternoon, Joseph? Nobody worked out like Rex. I know. I tried to keep up with him.”
The next afternoon Rex was at the track. He became my personal coach. He was as regular as the three-thirty bell. He still stopped occasionally at the bars after practice, but he was always cold sober at three-thirty. I worked out with Rex every day right up to the state meet.
Several days before the meet, Dad knocked on my door and I invited him in. He studied me for a moment. “Joseph, I want you to know something before the race Friday.”
“I’ve always wanted you to win this race.” He took a deep breath. “But, Joseph, during these past few weeks I’ve come to see something that means more to me than your winning Friday.” He paused. There was a mist in his eyes. “I appreciate what you’ve done for Rex. I used to see him stumbling down the street. I tried to ignore him. I wanted to remember him another way. But yesterday I ran into Rex at the store. We talked.” Dad smiled. “He’s proud of you, Joseph. I could see some of the old Rex. I saw hope instead of despair. If you win Friday, that will be wonderful. But the real victory, the one that means the very most, is the one you’ve already won with Rex. I want you to know that.”
Rex showed up late for the next day’s practice, but when he arrived he came with his blond hair cut short, his face clean shaven, and wearing a fresh pair of jeans and white T-shirt. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I joked when he strolled up.
“Well, kid, I figured you deserved to have somebody with a little class coach you.”
At the end of practice as I told Rex good-bye he shook my hand. “Good luck, kid.” There was excitement in his eyes. “The boss gave me the day off to see the race.”
“You’re going to Payson tomorrow to watch me run?” I asked, grinning.
He looked away. “If I can get there. My truck broke down this afternoon.”
“Davidson,” Coach Spaulding interrupted, “remember the van’s pulling out at six o’clock in the morning. We want to get to Payson early.”
An idea struck me. “Coach,” I spoke, stepping away from Rex, “hey do you think we could take Rex with us? There will be plenty of room in the van.”
Coach Spaulding looked at me, hesitating. “I don’t know, Davidson. I don’t know if I can count on Rex to be sober.”
“Coach, Rex has been cold sober for over a week. He was planning to go, but his truck broke down. I’d like to have him there, Coach. I promise he’ll be sober. I need him there.”
Coach Spaulding glanced in Rex’s direction. “All right,” he finally conceded. “He’s been helping you out. I suppose I can take him as a volunteer coach. But,” he added, “if I smell just the faintest trace of …”
“You won’t smell anything,” I cut him off. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Rex, you’re going with us in the van,” I announced excitedly. “You’ll be an assistant coach.”
For a moment my announcement didn’t register, and then suddenly his face crinkled into a grateful grin. “Thanks, kid. I’ll be here before six,” he committed. “And tomorrow LaDuke can have that silver medal all to himself,” he added with confidence. “Tomorrow nobody beats Sam Davidson’s kid. Not while I’m around.”
As I stood there witnessing Rex’s excitement and confidence, I knew that regardless of the outcome of the race the next day, Rex and I had already secured a gold medal victory.

“Why did I disobey my father?” I groaned, feeling my stomach lurch once more. “The wind—oh, please make the wind stop blowing.”
In desperation, I clung to the top of a 200-foot-high tree that swayed back and forth in the wind, knowing that at any time I could be swept away. How vividly you remember promises once they are broken.
As a young man, I spent summers working with my father in our sawmill in southern Washington. When I was 12 years old, high on my to-do list was topping a tree—that is, strapping on a pair of climbing spurs, climbing a tree, and cutting off its top. It involves considerable risk, but to me it looked exciting.
One Saturday as we ate lunch, I said, “Dad, do you know what I’m going to do this afternoon?”
“What’s that, Son?” he muttered, absently contemplating a broken sprocket on the conveyer belt.
“I’m going to climb Old Mossy.”
Old Mossy was a monstrous tree, untouched since the mill was built because the tree was so massive our small mill could never process it. Old Mossy stood almost 20 stories tall and was wide enough at the base to drive a car through if it were hollowed out. Every logger in the county knew about Old Mossy.
“Ouch,” I yelled as my father’s strong fingers bit into my shoulder.
“Dee,” he said with an intensity I had never heard before, “you are not to climb that tree. Do you understand? Old Mossy is a man-killer, and I don’t want you anywhere near it. I want your promise that you will never go near that tree with climbing spurs. Do I have your word?”
“I promise,” I stammered, a little shaken.
“Fine,” he said, rubbing my shoulder. “I’m going into town to buy a new sprocket. I want you to clean up around the mill while I’m gone. When I get back, we’ll knock off early and go see a movie. How does that sound?”
“That’s great, Dad,” I said as I rushed to complete my assigned task. I cleaned up furiously in anticipation of the movie, but my eyes were repeatedly drawn to Old Mossy. My work gradually ground to a halt as I stood there, completely captivated by my huge temptation. “Why, I could climb to the top and be down before Dad even returned from town,” I reasoned. “He wouldn’t even know.” With only a moment’s hesitation, I rushed to the storage shed and strapped on the climbing gear.
What a thrill it was to finally thrust those climbing spurs into the heavy bark and begin my ascent! I was so caught up in the excitement of the climb that I lost track of time. All at once, there I was—looking out over the tops of the other trees in the forest. The view was breathtaking. I hung there, luxuriating in the beauty of the moment.
I looked at the sky, at the horizon, and, finally, down at the ground. Immediately, nausea rippled through my body like a wave. I was suddenly so weak I could barely stand. I was more than 17 stories up with only two tiny climbing spurs and a rope as a lifeline. I shook with fright, incapable of anything but clinging to the rope.
Then the wind began to blow. The tree swayed back and forth, and I became sicker and sicker. How I wished I had obeyed my father! No young man ever felt remorse so quickly. How long I clung there, I don’t know, but it seemed like forever.
“Son,” I heard my father shout. “Son, can you hear me?”
Looking far below, I saw him lying on his back at the base of that monstrous tree, his head cradled in his hands, looking up at me. I will never forget that moment. He shouted, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. Take a deep breath and relax. You’re going to be just fine. Now, lean back against the rope and …”
Calmly and lovingly, he guided me step by step down the tree. When I finally reached the ground, I was weak and exhausted yet relieved and repentant. Dad untied the rope from my waist, helped me take off the spurs, and putting his arms around me, whispered, “Oh, my son, I love you so very much.”
Years have past, but in memory I still see my father at the base of Old Mossy, shouting, “Now, Dee, I want you to do exactly what I say.” My great faith in him gave me strength and courage to defeat the fear and sickness that had overwhelmed me. By obeying his instructions, I descended the tree into the safety of his welcoming arms.
From his example, I have realized that my Heavenly Father also loves me and will welcome me back when I repent for making mistakes. If I obey His words with exactness, He too will strengthen and guide me through the challenges of life so I can return to the safety of His warm embrace.

As a young man, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, wanted a different work experience than that of a laundry delivery boy for his family. He did not overly enjoy the cart, the heavy bike, or the work; nevertheless, he worked hard to help his family.

He relates the following regarding a blessing that came from that challenging work experience:
“Many years later, when I was about to be drafted into the military, I decided to volunteer instead and join the Air Force to become a pilot. I loved flying and thought being a pilot would be my thing.
“To be accepted for the program I had to pass a number of tests, including a strict physical exam. The doctors were slightly concerned by the results and did some additional medical tests. Then they announced, ‘You have scars on your lung which are an indication of a lung disease in your early teenage years, but obviously you are fine now.’ The doctors wondered what kind of treatment I had gone through to heal the disease. Until the day of that examination I had never known that I had any kind of lung disease. Then it became clear to me that my regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness. Without the extra effort of pedaling that heavy bicycle day in and day out, pulling the laundry cart up and down the streets of our town, I might never have become a jet fighter pilot and later a 747 airline captain. …
“If I had only known back then what I learned many years later—if I had only been able to see the end from the beginning—I would have had a better appreciation of these experiences, and it would have made my job so much easier.”5

Years ago our 17-year-old son wanted to go on a weekend trip with his friends, who were all good boys. He asked for permission to go. I wanted to say yes, but for some reason I felt uncomfortable about the trip. I shared my feelings with my wife, who was very supportive. “We need to listen to that warning voice,” she said.

Of course, our son was disappointed and asked why we didn’t want him to go. I answered honestly that I didn’t know why. “I just don’t feel good about it,” I explained, “and I love you too much to ignore these feelings inside.” I was quite surprised when he said, “That’s OK, Dad. I understand.”

Young people understand more than we realize because they too have the gift of the Holy Ghost. They are trying to recognize the Spirit when He speaks, and they are watching our example. From us they learn to pay attention to their promptings—that if they “don’t feel good about something,” it’s best not to pursue it.

While serving in Pennsylvania several years ago, I was pleasantly surprised to be visited by a minister of a huge Protestant congregation. We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the doctrinal subjects on which we could find benign agreement. Suddenly he interrupted our conversation by stating, “You teach one belief with which I could never agree. It is your idea that ‘as God is, man may become.’” (See History of the Church, 6:302–17.) He held a well-worn white Bible in his hand. I asked him to turn to Matthew 5:48. His nimble fingers quickly turned to that reference, and he read, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”

He gasped and then hesitatingly agreed to man’s great potential. We read other scriptures, such as: “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” (Gen. 1:26.) He understood, and found a new respect for our teachings. He left a wiser man, and I felt a renewed gratitude for the inspiring truths that we understand and teach.

Next week I will have the opportunity to go to the House of the Lord in order to perform sacred temple ordinances on behalf of a cousin who did not live long enough to complete these for himself. His life ended tragically in the company of a supposed friend early one cold, wet autumn morning, when the car he was riding in careened off the road, hit a telephone pole, and then was literally ripped in half when it slammed into a tree. Members of his extended family would like to believe that my cousin died instantly, since the injuries that his body sustained were too horrific to describe. It was no longer a fit or sustainable tabernacle for his spirit, and thus a merciful God allowed his mortal probation to come to an end there amidst the dead leaves and litter at the side of a road in the hilly midlands of Staten Island, New York.

While I am in no position to judge him, I fear that my cousin was still woefully unprepared when his life ended. He had experienced a very tempestuous and violent youth, and his adulthood was marred by perverse and even satanic practices that he encountered and too frequently embraced when he wandered into "forbidden paths" and became lost. Nevertheless, he and I stayed in touch over the years and we conversed frequently on the phone or via email. I had grown up viewing him as a wayward younger brother, born out of season and out of context, who should have been an heir to the blessings of the gospel had things worked out differently for him. Despite his many incorrect choices, I was not ready to abandon him. As time passed we spoke with increasing frequency about gospel-related topics and about the purpose of our life here on Earth. In small but consistent increments I could see his heart softening, and I was quite confident that one day, with the Savior's help, he would be strong enough to turn away from his sinful past and enter the waters of baptism. I had looked forward to that day, had prayed for that day, and had worked toward that day. When I was a young man, I had made a promise to my grandmother that I would not forget my cousin nor would I fail to stay in contact with him, no matter how troubled he might be or how much trouble he might find himself in. I'd like to believe that I kept that promise while my cousin lived, and by completing his temple work, I shall continue to keep that promise now that he has passed beyond this life.

The Savior taught: "Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die, and more especially for those that have not hope of a glorious resurrection. And it shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them; and they that die not in me, wo unto them, for their death is bitter" (D&C 42:45-47).

My cousin lost his life, based in part on his own choices and, more specifically, as the direct consequence of the driver of the car in which he rode being incapacitated by drugs and alcohol. That man how faces many years in prison as a result of his choices and their tragic consequences. I do not believe that my cousin was ready to leave this life so soon, but I do believe that he had already reversed his fall and was moving with increasing speed in the right direction.

Growing up, I saw many examples of meaningful relationships between married women and their mothers-in-law. I saw mothers-in-law who showed up at difficult times to ease their daughter-in-law’s burdens. I saw women acting as if they were lifelong family members. And I looked forward to having a relationship like that in my own life.
So when I did get married, I was surprised by how much harder it was to get along with my husband’s parents than I expected. I felt hopeless for any chance of a positive relationship with my in-laws. But as time has gone on, I’ve learned that it is still possible to cultivate a good relationship with my in-laws—I just needed to change my perspective and expectations.
My husband’s parents and I have very opposite personalities. And as a young adult trying to adjust to married life, work at a difficult job, and handle college classes, I craved validation. I yearned for encouragement. But what I got from my in-laws—especially my mother-in-law—was criticism.
Their family frequently pointed out each other’s perceived faults. To them it was normal, but it tore me apart when I was the target, especially when it came from my husband’s mother.
I did everything I could to impress her, but it never seemed to be enough. So I oscillated between trying to earn my in-laws’ approval and trying to distance myself from them altogether. As a result, I didn’t want my husband to tell them much about our lives.
Even while distancing myself, however, I still found that criticism seeped into my life. Without realizing it, I accepted the negative messages I was receiving and compounded them with my own. I constantly told myself that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, thin enough—anything enough. This vicious cycle would have existed even without my in-laws, but all our interactions seemed to fuel the fire.
My husband could tell that I often felt hurt or angry by his parents’ words and behavior. He tried his best to balance his love for his parents and his love for me, but it was a difficult and sometimes sore spot in our relationship.
One day, as I was feeling only a shadow of hope, I decided to pray for my in-laws and our unhappy dynamic. And then the realization hit me hard: I would never have the relationship with my mother-in-law that I’d always wanted. I felt sorrow for a moment, but the Spirit came quickly with this gentle thought: “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a good relationship.”
Honestly, it had never entered my head that our relationship could be different from what I’d pictured and still be a positive one.
I’d also never thought that my expectations were part of the problem. I’d wanted my mother-in-law to fit my vision of who she should be, but it wasn’t fair to only accept her if she fulfilled my expectations.
How freeing it was to let go of the expectations I had for my mother-in-law and still believe a better relationship could develop, especially as I relied on the Savior.
As I gave the Savior my feelings of inadequacy and the pain of unmet expectations, I experienced what Sister Michelle D. Craig, First Counselor in the Young Women General Presidency, once described: “Jesus’s miracles often begin with a recognition of want, need, failure, or inadequacy. … [The disciples] gave what they had to Jesus, and then He provided the miracle.”1
I’ve learned that I can focus on my mother-in-law’s strengths, and Christ can help me see her as He does. I have come to appreciate that she is a grandma who cares about her grandkids, that she serves faithfully in her callings, and that she loves the temple—all things I missed when I saw only her disapproval and hurtful words. I can strive to focus on these positive points and find common ground.
And instead of walking the same mental path and beating myself up over and over again, I can stop accepting judgments and unfair expectations from others and repent of shortcomings when I need to.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminded us that “we should not demean or vilify ourselves, as if beating up on ourselves is somehow going to make us the person God wants us to become.” Instead, we should remember that “the grace of Christ offers … salvation from our own persistent self-criticism.”2
When I work on feeling more peace within myself, it gives me a greater capacity to contribute to my relationship with my mother-in-law, including sending her pictures of her grandkids and acknowledging holidays and her birthday in fun ways.
My experience with my mother-in-law is just one piece of me realizing that I need to be at peace with who I am and not let others define me. I can depend on the Lord to heal my imperfections, because “his grace [is] sufficient for [me],” and by his grace I “may be perfect in Christ” (Moroni 10:32).
I hold on to the promise I felt from the Spirit that the Savior can help me continue to grow and that I can continually build a loving relationship with my in-laws by recognizing their personal goodness and enjoying our common ground without molding them to my ideal or trying to fit theirs.
I feel the promise also applies to the relationship I have with myself. When I am kinder to myself and focus on my divine identity (as well as everyone else’s) as a child of Heavenly Father, it positively affects how I interact with others, and vice versa. I can progress when I recognize the power of my Savior to help me overcome my imperfections and to help others do the same.

When I was a little girl, I thought Christmas was heaven on earth. Between cookies and candy, parties and presents, everything was perfect. Everything waited for me to tear it open or munch on it.
In the midst of all this, my mother said, “Remember that Jesus is the reason for the season.” She went with us to sing carols to the ward members. She would suggest that we part with a few of our precious cookies and give them to a neighbor or a teacher. All of this service was of little interest to me. I wanted to go to Christmas parties.
As I progressed into my teenage years, Christmas lost the sparkle and magic. My parents had divorced, and we had moved away from my grandparents and my friends. It became a hassle. I hated having to split my holidays between homes, and I was annoyed that I had to participate in my new stepfamily’s traditions. The neighbors were extra sweet and thoughtful at Christmas—almost too sweet and thoughtful, it seemed to me.
As a senior in high school, I decided that I was going to try harder to focus on that cliché about Christmas. I was going to find a way to appreciate the “reason for the season.” I offered to help with my high school’s Festival of Trees.
Each year various clubs and sports teams raised money, decorated a tree, and bought gifts for every member of a family they sponsored. For one week before Christmas break, the trees were put on display for the community. At the end of the week, the families being sponsored were invited to a special program to have treats and pick up their trees.
All along I found that changing my attitude was harder than I’d expected. By the time the night of the party came I never wanted to see another Christmas tree or curly ribbon again. I’d even had my fill of Christmas carols. But the party came anyway.
I glanced at my watch and at Kim, my co-chair for the evening. I reviewed the commons area and went through my mental checklist. Everything looked good. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the first family timidly walk in the front doors. Whipping out my trusty list, I walked toward them, grinned, and said, “Merry Christmas! This is your host. She’ll take you to your tree.”
The evening went great. Even I was enjoying myself, I found.
I had just turned to tell a host that the last family was there when I noticed one of our janitors, Jay, standing beside me.
“Hi, Jay. Do you need my help with something?”
“No. But I do have a question for you.”
He hesitated so long that I finally nodded and said, “Okay, what’s that?”
“What is it that you know that I don’t?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You must know something that I don’t know, because you haven’t quit smiling, and I can’t figure out why.”
I gave him a funny look and said, “Well, it’s Christmastime, Jay.”
He stared blankly at me for a moment, muttered something I didn’t quite catch, and shuffled off toward the janitor’s closet.
As I watched him walk away, I thought about how often he described Christmas as just a holiday for kids who didn’t get what real life was like. Jay had experienced many disappointments in life and hardly ever seemed happy.
At that moment I had what the Prophet Joseph Smith described as a stroke of “pure intelligence” when I realized Jay was right (see Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith [2007], 132). I did know something Jay didn’t know, but until then I had not really let it sink in.
I knew there is a God in heaven who loved me enough to send His Son to be born in a lowly manger, live a life of intense trial, and be resurrected and atone for my sins so that I could have happiness and hope. I had a knowledge of the reality of the Savior. I knew why we celebrate Christmas: so people who are followers of Christ would be reminded of who and why He is, and also that they might be reminded of their commitment to strive to be like Him.
Christmas is an opportunity to feel love and kindness in a world that may sometimes seem dreary and hopeless. I was in the middle of a program to ease the burdens of the poor families in my community, and I knew I had done a good job. But I also knew that I had missed someone. There was a man in that crowd who needed that love and hope just as much, if not more, than everyone else there, and I had shrugged him off.
With this realization fresh on my mind, I turned to see if Jay was still around. He deserved an answer. I couldn’t see him, but I had to find him. I thrust my checklist into Kim’s hands and hurried off with no explanation. I searched every inch of the school that wasn’t locked up. My heart sank as I realized that he was gone. I fought tears as I trudged back to the commons area.
“Well, it’s Christmastime, Jay.” What kind of answer was that? How could I have been so insensitive? Jay knew that I had something more, but I had not really answered him.
The moment I got home I knew what I had to do. I sat down and wrote Jay the most sincere Christmas card I have ever given anyone. He had been the key influence in my epiphany about the reason for Christmas, and he deserved to know what I knew. I left the card for him at the school office.
I have no idea what Jay thought of that card, or if he even read it. I saw him a few more times before Christmas break, then off and on for the rest of the year, but he never said anything to me. But every time I walked past him the hope rose in my heart that maybe, just maybe, his Christmas had been a little lighter because I answered his question. And I know my Christmases will be forever changed, because I came to realize for myself that focusing on Christ as the “reason for the season” is so much more than a cliché.

There was a time in my life when things had been going wrong and I had very little sense of self-worth. Even my testimony had been at a low point. My school friends didn’t understand why I wouldn’t go with them on Sundays, why I didn’t swear, and why I wouldn’t drink or smoke. They basically told me my beliefs were foolish. In the back of my mind I was also beginning to question what I believed.
As I pondered my problems, I decided to read both my patriarchal blessing and the scriptures. As I read my blessing a feeling of peace and love came over me. I knew there was a God who knows and loves me. He has great expectations of things which I can achieve.
I then turned to the Book of Mormon. As I read the words of Korihor the anti-Christ, these words struck me:
“O ye that are bound down under a foolish and a vain hope, why do ye yoke yourselves with such foolish things? Why do ye look for a Christ? For no man can know of anything which is to come. Behold, these things which ye call prophecies, which ye say are handed down by holy prophets, behold, they are foolish traditions of your fathers. How do ye know of their surety? Behold, ye cannot know of things which ye do not see; therefore ye cannot know that there shall be a Christ. Ye look forward and say that ye see a remission of your sins. But behold, it is the effect of a frenzied mind; and this derangement of your minds comes because of the traditions of your fathers, which lead you away into a belief of things which are not so” (Alma 30:13–16).
I continued to read and gained great comfort from Alma’s response to Korihor:
“Believest thou that there is a God? And [Korihor] answered, Nay. Now Alma said unto him: … I know there is a God, and also that Christ shall come. And now what evidence have ye that there is no God, or that Christ cometh not? I say unto you that ye have none, save it be your word only. But, behold, I have all things as a testimony that these things are true; and ye also have all things as a testimony unto you that they are true; and will ye deny them?” (Alma 30:37–41).
I realized my school friends didn’t have any proof or evidence that what I believed was false. But I had the testimonies of thousands—of prophets, family members, and trusted friends—that it was true. And, most importantly, I had my own testimony confirmed to me by the Spirit.