Gospel Story Finder

But sometimes the pressure of always being the example—of always being the “good” guy, especially when there are those around you trying to make you slip up, can become overwhelming. That’s what happened to Ryan when he was traveling with his marching band. “Sometimes I get made fun of a lot because I don’t swear or tell dirty jokes. I’ve actually had people say they were going to get me to crack before the end of the band season.”

At one point about two years ago during an extended band competition, the harassment got so bad that Ryan reached a breaking point. “I was crying on the bus. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to go home.” When the bus arrived back at the school where the band was staying, Ryan told a friend he was going for a walk and left to find a quiet place to pray.

“I found this spot behind the school, and when I knelt down and started to pray, I broke down. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to get through this. I must have prayed for a good 30 minutes where I was literally pouring out my soul. It was really the first night where I felt as if Heavenly Father was near to me. When I felt that, I’ve never felt so much at peace in my life, and I knew right then that I would get through this.

“Before I prayed I was like, ‘I can’t take it,’ and afterward it was one of the most calm and peaceful feelings I’ve ever felt. Then there were tears of joy and tears of happiness. What I felt was truly the gift of the Holy Ghost helping me get through what I was going through.”

Ryan says that as he felt the loving presence of his Father in Heaven, everything changed. Ryan had felt alone and insignificant; now he felt loved and empowered. “I’m a son of God,” Ryan said to himself. “I’m a priesthood holder—a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. That night I really felt like I was someone important to my Heavenly Father.”

The competition circuit continued for another week, and those who had been badgering Ryan stopped. He’d weathered the storm, his testimony now strengthened, his reputation intact. Plus he’d had a few opportunities to share the gospel with others.

After two students were killed and 22 others wounded in a tragic school shooting in Springfield, Oregon, last May, LDS teens in the area wanted to do something to help their community heal. A tri-stake youth conference was quickly rearranged to include a service project at the high school where the tragedy occurred.
Three bus loads of LDS youth from the Eugene, Eugene West, and Santa Clara Stakes cleaned and beautified the school grounds. Many of the teens who worked on the project had been at the school when the shooting took place and had friends who were wounded. For these students, the service project was as healing for themselves as it was for the community.
“It was such a good feeling to put things back together for our school and community and ourselves,” said Kawika Lawther. “Having the gospel in our lives also helped us get over our feelings so much faster,” added Corwin Lewis, student-body vice president of the school.

A few years ago, a mother wanted to reduce the time television was taking from her neighborhood’s school-age children. She started a campaign to encourage more time away from television, calling it “Turn Off Your TV, Turn On Your Mind.” She challenged the students at her children’s school to stop watching television—except for two to three hours a week of news or educational programs—for one month. Support came readily from the school’s principal and faculty. Teachers contributed ideas for how the students could use their time, and the children undertook special projects like participating in reading marathons, building models, and performing experiments.
The “Turn Off Your TV” campaign proved to be a memorable experience, especially for the children and their parents. Local news media covered the event and praised the efforts of those involved.

When I was in junior high, a party was a big deal. There weren’t very many of them in those days, so I was excited when I received an invitation to a party given by Cheryl Allen, a new girl at school.
Cheryl arrived on the scene in the middle of eighth grade. She was pretty and confident. Somehow she knew how to choose and wear clothes that made her look older than the rest of us. She immediately seemed to attract a large group of friends, especially the boys.
A big crowd was expected at the party, with a lot of friends from her old school attending. I felt flattered to be invited and talked Mom into buying me a new dress to wear for the occasion.
The party started fine enough. Cheryl’s dad barbecued, and we ate dinner outside on the patio. The atmosphere was casual and fun. Things were going great, and I met some of the friends she had invited from her old school. Then the games began.
During the first game, we took turns asking each other riddles from a game book. If we answered correctly, we were told to select a member of the opposite sex and kiss him “long and slow like they do in the movies.” I was 13 at the time and had never kissed a boy before. I felt so young, inexperienced, and out of place. Some of the others must have sensed my discomfort, because when it was my turn they told me to just give one of the boys a hug. How embarrassing!
I wanted to get out of there. But how could I do it without embarrassing myself further? I was worried what the kids would think of me and how dumb it would look to have my parents pick me up from a party at 8:30 P.M. Would I be a total outcast at school on Monday?
Then there was the problem of my parents. Would they think I was running around with a bad crowd if I told them why I really wanted to come home? Maybe they wouldn’t let me attend any more parties.
Finally, I shut out all these worries and just walked away from the group and called home. Dad answered the phone and said he’d be right over to get me.
I don’t remember what excuse I gave Cheryl for leaving. It really didn’t matter. I’m sure she knew why I left anyway.
I had planned to be really nonchalant with Dad on the way home and just tell him the party was boring. Somehow, when I started talking, my voice started to quiver and the truth spilled out with a flood of tears.
Dad was upset at first and said, “I’m going back there to talk to her parents.” My worst fear. When Dad saw the panic on my face, he must have sensed how sensitive I felt about it. Fortunately, he kept driving the car toward home.
Dad did most of the talking on the ride home. He told me about a couple of experiences he had at my age when he felt awkward around girls and unsure of himself. He really had some crazy things happen to him. Dad was usually such a quiet man. He never talked much about his childhood. He made me laugh that night. It was good for me to know that it was hard for other people to grow up, too.
I developed a real appreciation for Dad that night. We seemed to have a bond between us after that experience. I had seen a new side to him. When you’re young, you think your parents have always been parents and that they couldn’t possibly understand what you’re going through. My eyes were opened a lot through that experience.
As for school on Monday after that infamous party, I can’t remember what happened. I guess it really didn’t matter in the long run.

While I was serving as a deacon, teacher, and priest, we usually had a priesthood lesson about the value of keeping the Word of Wisdom, and almost always a part of that lesson would concern itself with the marvelous story of Creed Hammond. Creed was an excellent runner whose coach tried to get him to drink some wine the night before the national track championship. A few years ago in a stake conference I heard Creed himself tell of that experience, and I was very moved when I caught a detail that I had missed as a boy. President Hammond told of going as a young boy from Springville to Provo with his mother and sister to hear Apostle Reed Smoot speak. That evening Elder Smoot chose as his topic the Word of Wisdom. Returning home, Sister Hammond stopped the buggy, took her son and daughter by the hand, and they made a covenant together that they would never violate the principles contained in the Word of Wisdom. “The night,” Creed said, “when the coach wanted me to drink the wine, I could feel my mother’s hand and my sister’s hand, and, though it was long ago, I could hear my mother’s voice. I could not violate the covenant we had made together.”

Dad’s car was mustard brown. Its color made the rust spots less noticeable. It seemed like a tank left over from a war. The name on the car’s grill was Plymouth. Actually it wasn’t a Plymouth at all. It was half Plymouth and half Dodge, a spare-parts mobile made up of two wrecks, always lacking something and always showing us a new frailty in its character.
But Dad’s car was his pet. He would never consider giving it up for anything. He tried convincing us that it was really a sports car in disguise. He would tell us that it had a floor stick shift just like a Porsche. I soon realized, however, that a floor gear was the only thing the old wagon and a Porsche 920 had in common.
“Anyone can have a nice new car,” Dad would say. “But how many people do you know that actually own a 1976, stick-shift, mustard-brown station wagon? We want to be unique.”
Unique was an understatement in my book. You see, I was in ninth grade, my first year in high school. I wanted to impress my peers. But how could I when everyone knew that the mustard-brown tank belonged to my family? It was bad enough that I was a freshman and couldn’t drive. But to imagine being seen by upperclassmen in that junk heap was more than I could bear. When my dad would drive me and my brother to school after seminary, I would duck down as he pulled in to the drop-off spot. I desperately hoped that no one would see me. I would then slink out of the car, bury my head in my books, and run as fast as I could for the safety of the school building.
During my junior year in high school, however, my feelings for the “tank” changed. It took a frustrating experience—my illustrious career as a cross-country runner—to finally show me the light.
During the cross-country season, I came to see a great likeness between myself and the tank. I was not, to say the least, the star of the team. I was slow (my engine only a weak V-6), ungraceful (my rusting joints needed oiling), and my body type was not the one best suited for running (I had the wrong engine with the wrong carburetor). Yet I was constant. I ran every day, sometimes even twice a day, always trying to improve, trying to be the magnificent runner I dreamed of becoming. But I was nowhere close. I tried everything I could think of to improve my time. I ate the right pastas, I tried exotic stretches, I even slept in my shoes (I had read in a magazine it made one more in tune with running). But nothing worked! I was extremely frustrated. I felt like last year’s track shoes headed for the trash. I wanted to be the foremost runner on the team, but it took all my energy to keep from coming in last.
Finally I asked my dad for a blessing. I desperately needed some outside help. But what my dad said as he laid his hands on my head was not at all what I had expected. He told me flat out—“You are not a runner.” He said, “Your purpose is not in being the best runner. You have another purpose for being on the team.” And that was it. I felt let down and not particularly proud of myself. I did feel, however, that what my dad had said was what the Lord wanted me to hear. So I continued with the racing, straining and struggling my hardest not to come in last. At times I felt I had a few screws loose or that I could use a better set of spark plugs, but I never changed—at least not physically.
By the end of the season, however, I had changed. Spiritually I had grown. My vision had been expanded. On the night of our final athletic banquet, my coach came up to me and told me the secret I found in our old station wagon. He said:
“I know running hasn’t been easy for you, and you know something, you’ll never be a great runner.” No joke, I thought to myself. I’ve heard that one before. Then he continued. “But you are one of the most important members of our team. You have had such a positive influence on the team; they all look up to you. Thanks for being such a good example.”
And that was the secret. That’s what made the car special—it had a function, a worthwhile purpose. It was the car we knew we could depend on during winter in subzero temperatures. We knew it would be the only one to start. It was the only car that could pull our trailer and the only car with a rack on top for hauling luggage or Christmas trees. Despite its many frailties, it was needed, wanted, and yes, even loved.
Our station wagon would never be the sleekest car on the block. It would never win any prizes for the smoothest performance or most comfortable ride. Though it was old, rusted, and to some people even worthless, it was vital to our family. Its dependability was more important than its outward value.
The lesson I learned from the old station wagon was this: Although it may not be easy to see, our Heavenly Father has given everyone an important purpose. Despite our frailties, we are needed, wanted, and loved. We are each unique and priceless.

“Work goes faster if we work together,” said Vanessa Kaiser (10) of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. “And if we all work together, we have time to play together.” Last summer Vanessa’s family had job cards that told each person what his job assignment for the week was. The jobs were changed weekly—except for the job of tending Katelyn (1). That job goes to whomever Katelyn is happiest with each day.
Each child has his favorite jobs. Vanessa likes to vacuum the stairs, iron, and take care of the family’s two dogs, Cotton and Sandy. Jessica (12) likes to cook and tend Katelyn. Jonathan (8) prefers dusting, and Kenneth (5) vacuuming. Mostly they like to get their work done so that they can play.
Last winter they built an ice rink in their backyard. First they packed the snow down with a toboggan; then they sprinkled the snow with water to form layers of ice. When the ice was thick enough, they went skating. But soon they learned to use their slippery slide as a luge run. Sliding down it on a rubber mat, they’d fly across the iced backyard into a soft snowbank.
The family has a “basement business” to make money for a “magnificent” vacation. They make personalized boot clips (used to clip pairs of boots together so that they don’t get separated) and magnets out of plastic tiles. Jonathan and Kenneth peel the protective coating off the tiles and brush them clean. Mom, Jessica, and Vanessa engrave the tiles with people’s names or initials, bevel the edges to make them smooth, then bend the tiles to make boot clips or attach magnets to the tiles’ backs.
In all things the Kaiser family works together. Their father, Walter, owns a photo finishing lab. Their mother, Nancy, helps with the bookwork, and the children help clean the office. Then Dad helps out at home. “Whenever Mom says there’s nothing in the house to fix for dinner, Dad somehow finds a way to make a wonderful dinner. He’s a great cook,” Vanessa said.
Vanessa loves talking to Jessica about things that Jessica has already done. For instance, last winter Vanessa went to Winter Camp, a winter survival training course held in February for all fifth graders. Before she went, Jessica told her all about how fun it was to build “quinzhee” shelters out of snow and to play the survival games. It made Vanessa really excited about going and helped her not to be nervous about the unknown.
Jonathan likes to play with Vanessa because she’ll take the time to work on his projects with him. Jonathan loves to build and create things. Vanessa’s favorite project with Jonathan was building a tricky course, much like a miniature golf course, out of Legos and Zaks and then blowing balls of crumpled up facial tissue through the maze of paths.
Sometimes after a hard day, Vanessa will go to her room and find her bed turned down and a note on her pillow. It will be from Kenneth. “He’ll print some letters on it and tell me that it says ‘I love you. You have been so nice to me today.’” It means a lot to Vanessa.
But Kenneth isn’t the only one who writes secret notes to make others feel better. “I do bookwork for my husband,” said Mom. “When it’s payroll, I have a busy, long night. But sometimes when I go down to my work after the kids have gone to bed, I find nice notes that Vanessa has left for me.”
Vanessa sets an example not only at home, but at school too. One day her class was drinking something that is against the Word of Wisdom. Vanessa passed it up and politely explained why she couldn’t drink it. Another time she told some children who were using bad language on the playground that she didn’t like those words and that they upset her. The other children respected her feelings and stopped using the offensive language.
Recycling has also become one of Vanessa’s major concerns. After her class did a project on it, Vanessa helped her family become involved. “Now every time I want to throw something away,” her mother said, “she says, ‘I can recycle that at school.’”
“If we don’t do something now,” said Vanessa, “we’ll have so much garbage that we won’t know what to do with it.”
Vanessa is a joy to her family and friends, and they bring her joy too.

One of the mountains we had to climb was when we were making all the arrangements with my wife’s family for our marriage. Her family, who is Catholic, made it a condition that if I wanted to marry their daughter, we had to get married religiously in the Catholic Church. We were completely at a loss as to what to do.
My wife and I said to each other that temple marriage is a commandment of God. We had faith in Him and in His Son Jesus Christ; we decided to pray and fast, and then whatever our Heavenly Father would reveal to us we would do it, even if it meant getting married in a Catholic church. We decided to meet with my wife’s family to ask them if we could all pray together. If our Heavenly Father revealed to us that we should get married in the Catholic Church, then we would do it. But if God revealed to us that we should get married in the temple, then we would invite my wife’s family to accept that answer. Our goal was to accept the will of God.
After we prayed and fasted, our Heavenly Father revealed to us that we should get married in the temple. To our great surprise, my in-laws did not challenge us anymore.
We have been married now for three years, and we plan to go to the temple next month.
A few months ago, my mother-in-law told my wife that she felt that we had bewitched them during the prayer. They did not understand what had happened! My wife tenderly explained that it was the Spirit of God that touched her heart.

by Barbara Marler
“Threads of Forever” was the theme of a special service project undertaken at a biregional Young Women’s conference for the Dallas and Fort Worth Texas regions.
Ninety quilts were completed by 1,200 Young Women. Girls from 8 stakes and 72 wards steadfastly stitched for 9 months with the goal of donating their handiwork to homeless children.
The quilts were presented in a special luncheon. A local television broadcaster accepted the quilts on behalf of homeless children. In his acceptance, the newsman said, “Children become homeless because of unfortunate events in their past. They are victims of neglect or even abuse. For many of these children, this could be the first time that someone has truly cared.”
At first, the prospect of creating numerous quilts was a little overwhelming to some of the girls. Many had never quilted and felt that quilting was something that only grandmothers did. But the project turned out to be more fun than work.
The young men and women from the Honshu Japan Servicemen’s district held their annual youth conference in Tokyo. For many of the youth who came long distances, it was the first time they had seen Tokyo. In addition to discussion workshops held on a variety of subjects, the youth went to the Tokyo Temple to do baptisms for the dead. After three days of sightseeing and enjoying each other’s company, the highlight of the conference was the testimony meeting where the participants were able to express their feelings about the gospel.
Young men in the teachers quorum of the Draper Fifth Ward, Draper Utah Stake, felt a need to be unified. The younger members of the quorum did not feel close to the older members. In a few days of vacation from school, the group decided to explore a nearby part of their state together. Through shared experience they hoped to find new friendships.
The group drove a few hours south into a strangely bleak and beautiful area of Canyonlands National Park. With red sandstone cliffs, twisted pinnacles of rock, and flat-topped mesas, the land was as dramatic as they had hoped for.
The late nights spent talking around the campfire and the days filled with exploring the Anasazi Indian ruins and swimming in the nearby rivers served as a common ground around which new friendships could grow. Through the fun of being together, the group found new unity.

One of these lesser pieces has helped me learn an enduring lesson. I was in the Salt Lake Temple one day, preparing to leave the dressing room after participating in an ordinance for the dead. Noticing a drinking fountain, I realized I was thirsty, so I bent down for a quick drink. A message came into my mind:
You drink this water in the temple, but do you really drink the living water that is available here?
It wasn’t a pounding condemnation—just a gentle rebuke and a soul-penetrating question.
My answer to that question was no. I wasn’t completely drinking the temple’s living water. I had to admit that my mind had wandered minutes earlier as I received ordinances for the dead. Although I had done a good work for people who needed my help, I hadn’t allowed myself to receive all the help I needed.
Now, every time I go to a temple, I look for a drinking fountain and stop for a drink. I ask myself how deeply I am drinking from the fountain of living water. My answer: Still not deeply enough. But my thirst is increasing.

Let me close with one last, lengthy lesson on perseverance.
On July 28, 1847, four days after his arrival in that valley, Brigham Young stood upon the spot where now rises the magnificent Salt Lake Temple and exclaimed to his companions: “Here [we will build] the Temple of our God!” (James H. Anderson, “The Salt Lake Temple,” Contributor 14, no. 6, Apr. 1893: 243).
Its ground would cover an eighth of a square mile, and it would be built to stand through eternity. Who cared about the money or stone or timber or glass or gold they didn’t have? So what that only a handful of seeds had been planted and the Saints were yet without homes. Why worry that crickets would soon be coming? And so would the United States Army.
They just marched forth and broke ground for the most massive, permanent, inspiring edifice they could conceive. And they would spend 40 years of their lives to complete it.
The work seemed ill-fated from the start. The excavation for the basement required trenches 20 feet wide and 16 feet deep, much of it through solid gravel. Just digging for the foundation alone required 9,000 man-days of labor. Surely someone must have said, “We don’t need a temple this big.” But they kept on digging. Maybe they believed they were “laying the foundation of a great work.” In any case they worked on, “not weary in well-doing.”
And through it all Brigham Young had dreamed the dream and seen the vision. With the excavation complete and the cornerstone ceremony concluded, he said to the Saints assembled:
“I do not like to prophesy much, … But I will venture to guess that this day, and the work we have performed on it, will long be remembered by this people, and be sounded as with a trumpet’s voice throughout the world. …
“… five years ago last July I was here, and saw in the spirit the Temple. [I stood] not ten feet from where we have laid the chief corner stone. I have not inquired what kind of a Temple we should build. Why? Because it was [fully] represented before me” (Contributor, p. 257).
But as Brigham Young also said, “We never began to build [any] temple without the bells of hell beginning to ring” (Discourses of Brigham Young, sel. John A. Widtsoe, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1961, p. 40). No sooner was the foundation work finished than Albert Sidney Johnston and his United States troops set out for the Salt Lake Valley intent on war with “the Mormons.” In response President Young made elaborate plans to evacuate and, if necessary, destroy the entire city behind them. But what to do about the temple whose massive excavation was already completed and its 8-by-16-feet foundational walls firmly in place? They did the only thing they could do: they filled it all back in again. Every shovelful. All that soil and gravel that had been so painstakingly removed with those 9,000 man-days of labor was filled back in. When they finished, those acres looked like nothing more interesting than a field that had been plowed up and left unplanted.
When the Utah war threat had been removed, the Saints returned to their homes and painfully worked again at uncovering the foundation and removing the material from the excavated basement structure.
But then the apparent masochism of all this seemed most evident when not adobe or sandstone but massive granite boulders were selected for the basic construction material. And they were 20 miles away in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Furthermore, the precise design and dimensions of every one of the thousands of stones to be used in that massive structure had to be marked out individually in the architect’s office and shaped accordingly. This was a suffocatingly slow process. Just to put one layer of the 600 hand-sketched, individually squared and precisely cut stones around the building took nearly three years. That progress was so slow that virtually no one walking by the temple block could ever see any progress at all.
And, of course, getting the stone from mountain to city center was a nightmare. A canal on which to convey the stone was begun and a great deal of labor and money expended on it, but it was finally aborted. Other means were tried, but before the railroad came in the 1870s oxen proved to be the only viable means of transportation. In the 1860s always four and often six oxen in a team could be seen almost any working day of the year, toiling and tugging and struggling to pull from the quarry one or, at most, two monstrous blocks of granite of medium size.
During that time, as if the United States Army hadn’t been enough, the Saints had plenty of other interruptions. The arrival of the railroad pulled almost all of the working force off the temple for nearly three years, and twice grasshopper invasions sent the workers into full-time summer combat with the pests. By mid-1871, fully two decades and untold misery after it had begun, the walls of the temple were barely visible above ground. Far more visible was the teamsters’ route from Cottonwood, strewn with the wreckage of wagons—and dreams—unable to bear the load placed on them. The journals and histories of these teamsters are filled with accounts of broken axles, mud-mired animals, broken sprockets, and shattered hopes. I do not know if these men swore, but surely they might have been seen turning a rather steely eye toward heaven. But they believed and kept pulling. And through all of this President Young seemed in no hurry. “The Temple will be built as soon as we are prepared to use it,” he said (Contributor, p. 266). Indeed his vision was so lofty and his hope so broad that right in the middle of this staggering effort requiring virtually all that the Saints could seem to bear, he announced the construction of the St. George, Manti, and Logan temples.
“Can you accomplish this work, you Latter-day Saints of these several counties?” he asked. And then in his own inimitable way he answered. “Yes; that is a question I can answer readily. You are perfectly able to do it. The question is, have you the necessary faith? Have you sufficient of the Spirit of God in your hearts to say, yes, by the help of God our Father we will erect these buildings to His name? Go to now, with your might and with your means, and finish this Temple” (Contributor, p. 267).
So they squared their shoulders and stiffened their backs and went forward with their might. But when President Young died in 1877, the temple was still scarcely 20 feet above the ground. Ten years later, his successor, President John Taylor, and the temple’s original architect, Truman O. Angell, were dead as well. The side walls were just up to the square. And now the infamous Edmunds-Tucker Act had already been passed by Congress disincorporating The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One of the effects of this law was to put the Church into receivership whereby the U.S. Marshall, under a November court order, seized this temple the Saints had now spent just under 40 years of their lives dreaming of, working for, and praying fervently to enjoy. To all appearances, the still unfinished but increasingly magnificent structure was to be wrested at this last hour from its rightful owners and put into the hands of aliens and enemies, the very group who had often boasted that the Latter-day Saints would never be permitted to finish the building. It seemed those boasts were certain to be fulfilled. Schemes were immediately put forward to divert the intended use of the temple in ways that would desecrate its holy purpose and mock the staggering sacrifice of the Saints who had so faithfully tried to build it.
But God was with these modern children of Israel, as he always has been and always will be. The Red Sea parted before them, and they walked through on firm, dry ground. On April 6, 1892, the Saints as a body were nearly delirious. Now, finally, here in their own valley with their own hands they had cut out of the mountains a granite monument that was to mark, after all they had gone through, the safety of the Saints and the permanence of Christ’s true church on earth for this one last dispensation. The central symbol of all that was the completed house of their God. The streets were literally jammed with people. Forty thousand of them fought their way on to the temple grounds. Ten thousand more, unable to gain entrance, scrambled to the tops of nearby buildings in hopes that some glimpse of the activities might be had. Inside the Tabernacle, President Wilford Woodruff, visibly moved by the significance of the moment, said:
“If there is any scene on the face of this earth that will attract the attention of the God of heaven and the heavenly host, it is the one before us today—the assembling of this people, the shout of ‘Hosanna!’ the laying of the topstone of this Temple in honor to our God” (Contributor, p. 270). Then, moving outside, he laid the capstone in place exactly at high noon.
In the writing of one who was there, “The scene that followed is beyond the power of language to describe. The venerable President of the Twelve Apostles, Lorenzo Snow, came forward and led the forty thousand Saints in the Hosanna Shout. The eyes of thousands were moistened with tears in the fullness of their joy. The ground seemed to tremble with the volume of sound which sent forth its echoes to the surrounding hills. A grander or more imposing spectacle than this ceremony of laying the Temple capstone is not recorded in history,” he said (Contributor, p. 273).

Some years ago I coached a high school basketball team through a rather unusual season. The season began with a number of disappointing losses. Some of the fans and townspeople didn’t make a secret of their unhappiness over the team’s failures. There was considerable public comment, and it was a challenging time for members of the team. Several of them finally became discouraged and withdrew from the team. Those who remained didn’t lose faith in themselves or in their coach. The rough going seemed to be an incentive for them to try even harder.

At mid-season the team began to win their games. They qualified for the district tournament and surprised everyone there by winning a place in the state play-offs. To the amazement of everyone, they went on to win the state championship—the first ever to be won by that school!

Following the celebration and the awarding of trophies after the championship game, I drove several of the team members back to our city. There was silence during much of the ride as we each reflected on the incredible outcome of our season’s efforts. Finally, one of the young men spoke. (He had been honored for being one of the outstanding players in the tournament.) “Coach,” he said, “I think we were supposed to win tonight.”

I was curious to know what had prompted this conclusion. “Why do you think we were supposed to win?” I asked.

His response was simple and direct—and I will never forget its impact. “Because we paid the price,” he said.

Indeed they had, and I am sure the lessons learned by those young men during that eventful year have been valuable to them throughout their lives.

A few weeks ago, Kathy and I visited the home of Matt and Sarah Johnson. On the wall was a picture of their precious family, a beautiful image of the Savior, and an illustration of the temple.
Their four daughters, Maddy, Ruby, Claire, and June, spoke happily about how much they loved their mother.
For over a year Sarah had regularly scheduled Saturday appointments for the family to attend the temple together so that the girls could participate in baptisms for family members who lived previously.
In November of last year, Sarah scheduled a family temple appointment for the last week in December on Thursday instead of Saturday. “I hope you’re OK with that,” she said to Matt.
Sarah had been diagnosed with cancer, but the doctors anticipated she would live two or three more years. During a sacrament meeting, Sarah had shared her powerful testimony, saying that whatever the outcome for her, she loved the Savior with all her heart and that “the victory had already been won” by Him. As December progressed, unexpectedly Sarah’s health rapidly declined, and she was admitted to the hospital. In the early morning of Thursday, December 29, she quietly completed her mortality. Matt had been by Sarah’s side all through the night.
With his heart breaking, and completely exhausted physically and emotionally, he arrived home, sorrowing with his daughters. As Matt glanced at his phone, he noticed the reminder of the unusual Thursday temple appointment Sarah had scheduled for later that day. Matt said, “When I first saw it, I thought, This just isn’t going to work.”
But then Matt’s mind caught hold upon this thought: “The Savior lives. There is no place we would rather be as a family than in His holy house.”
Matt, Maddy, Ruby, Claire, and June arrived at the temple for the appointment Sarah had scheduled for them. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Matt performed the baptisms with his daughters. They deeply felt their love and eternal bond with Sarah, and they felt the immense love and comforting peace of the Savior. Matt tenderly shared, “While I feel deep sorrow and grief, I am shouting for joy, knowing my Father’s wonderful plan of salvation.”

When I joined the missionary preparation class, things didn’t go smoothly. I was battling personal conflicts and worried that I wouldn’t make a difference as a missionary. I felt more anxious every day.
I struggled with these feelings for a while and prayed to know if I really was good enough to serve.
One day, as I checked my email, I opened a message from ComeuntoChrist.org. There, in big, bold letters, were the words “You Are Enough!”
These words pierced my heart, and I felt comforted. My prayers had been answered! I realized that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are fully aware of our circumstances and can answer our prayers in the most personal ways.

One of the reasons Kristi liked working at Lake Susan each summer was because of the fantastic selection of green growing things there. That’s what she always did on her day off—go after more specimens for her collection.
This afternoon was no different at all. She was nudging her little trowel around the delicate roots of some Houstonia caerulea (or if you prefer, some bluets) when she noticed the pair of boots. Lifting her eyes she followed the boots until they joined the jeans, and the jeans joined the shirt, and the shirt opened into the most tooth-filled grin she’d seen. This was all crowned by a flop of sun-blonde hair that was being flipped back as the grin turned into a laugh.
“Hi there, Flora. What do you have there?”
“Flora? My name is Kristi; these are some Houston … some bluets. Who are you?” she added, as she suddenly realized she’d never seen him before.
“Yeah, Flora, like flora and fauna. My name is Nils. Hmmm, Kristi.” He speculated for a moment and then pronounced, “Flora fits better.”
By dark she had found out that he worked down at the marina giving water skiing lessons, that his whole name was Nils Frederick Cramer IV, and that he had a Piper Cub airplane he planned to take her flying in next week. He was also in law school and had an opening in his family’s firm when he finished his degree next spring.
They had a beautiful summer. He taught her to water ski and she taught him about her plants. For Kristi summer had always been a period of timelessness. She had never been able to relate anything that happened in the summer to the rest of her life. This year was even more a fairy tale. With Nils at her side she skimmed across the waters of Lake Susan. She soared above the mountains in his plane. Sometimes they went down to the village to attend a dance or a movie, and with him she never got too tired to run, laughing through the moonlight, back to the resort. Sometimes they just hiked around the silent forests by the lake, drinking in the verdant magnificence. It was perfect, almost.
One Sunday evening when she had just returned from sacrament meeting in the village, they were sitting on the dock, watching the fish play with the flies.
“Flora,” Nils began, “there’s one thing about you I’ll never understand. How can a girl of your intellect and awareness be such a religious fanatic?”
Kristi had been carefully avoiding the subject of the Church for most of the summer. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her membership, she just felt that it wasn’t something she could successfully discuss with Nils. It was odd, actually. She had always been an aggressive member-missionary. But Nils was one person whose life she didn’t want to start tampering with. Besides, she was going to enjoy this summer and not clutter it up with the Church. They would never see each other again after August, and so it didn’t matter. As long as she kept herself in tune, then what Nils believed was irrelevant. And she was doing a fairly good job of it, if she had to say so herself.
“Well, Nils, it’s just something I’ve always known to be true, and I can’t really explain it. I’ll never change because I can’t deny the truth.”
“But Flora, it’s so immature. It’s out of character for you to cling to such a silly little-girl thing as Sunday School. I used to go to a church when I was a kid too, but it’s all over now. I grew up. I don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore, either. So what?”
Kristi just changed the subject so she could think for a while. It never did occur to her to really try to explain the Church to him. She just kept thinking that things had been going so well until he brought up the Church; so she just arranged to keep it out of any conversations they had after that one. It was a strain trying to be a good member while still avoiding it, but she thought she was doing quite nicely. Besides, summer was ending fast, and when she got to school, she could forget Nils and really get back into things again. In the meantime she meant to enjoy the little paradise they had created.
Fall came with a jolt. They both knew it would eventually; but it was hard getting used to the idea that they had come to the end. Nils kept insisting that this wasn’t the end and that he’d write or call—he did want to see her again. Kristi silently figured she knew his type. Besides, it really couldn’t be continued once they left this setting. She couldn’t define it, but she knew it would never work.
School gathered her in with the familiar excitement of stepping into the new routine of different classes and different roommates. Carma and Gail, two old standbys from last year, were living next door in the dorm, and the three of them often did things together. One night they attended a movie that Kristi had seen with Nils that summer. It wasn’t even a very good one, but she became so moody that Carma insisted on being told the whole story. When Kristi finished, Carma said,
“Look, Kristi, you’re right. It couldn’t have lasted at all. I really think you should have taken him to church or maybe had the missionaries see him, though. But that’s all behind you now. We have to cure you and get your old cheery self back. What you need is a date with my cousin Del. Now I’ll call him up tomorrow and …” They walked home scheming, but Kristi was silent, thinking about how disappointing school was and how perfectly boring this winter was beginning to be.
She went through the motions of living and eventually decided that she was quite normal but that she had matured a little and was able to see how foolish all the enthusiasm she’d exhibited before was. When she came home from school one afternoon and saw the roses on her desk, she never even suspected Nils. The card read, “To my lovely Flora. Happy Anniversary, four months ago today. Love, Nils.”
He called that night, and she couldn’t believe that they had forty-five minutes worth of things to say to each other. He called her every week after that and sent her all sorts of ridiculous mail. Once she told him that he had to stop the phone calls because they must be costing him too much.
“Flora, my love, money doesn’t matter where you, my sweet, are involved.”
“Nils, be realistic. Your vocabulary is straight from the fourteenth century. You cannot possibly afford it.”
“But Flora, realistically, I can afford it, and besides, I think I love you, and how will I ever find out if I don’t talk to you?” And then, as usual, “When can you come and see me?”
And, also as usual, “Never; you have to stop calling; you have to stop writing; you have to stop missing me; you cannot love me. It won’t work, Nils; we’re too different. Please.”
He never believed her, though. She wondered what she’d have to do to convince him. After she hung up the phone, her roommate Jill offered to pray and fast with her for a solution. Kristi politely, but coldly, made some remark about being perfectly capable of solving her own problems. Once in a while she found herself thinking that it was rather comforting to know that somewhere out there someone cared that much about her. Someone as unique as Nils thought about her often.
One afternoon she decided to go next door and visit Carma and Gail. As she started around the corner, she heard Gail’s voice coming through the open door.
“I have noticed, Carma. I really have. She’s just different. You know how fervent Kristi always was about her testimony. It seems faded or something. We definitely need to help …” Kristi just slipped back into her own room, bitter thoughts filling her mind about fickle friends minding their own business.
Her birthday came on a Thursday. Nils hadn’t called for two weeks and no mail had come for nearly a month. To add to her depression, it had snowed all day. The only thing she wanted to do was to go back home where the sun shone and no one had even heard of snow. She was getting tired of reality. Summer seemed so far away, and she was so depressed by the way this winter was turning out. There seemed to be nothing in the world that could cheer her up that evening. She had just resigned herself to homework when the phone rang. A voice told her that she had a special delivery package at the dorm office and asked that she and several friends come down to claim it. The several friends and Kristi managed to get the 3-by-4-foot crate back to her room with much difficulty. They struggled with the cover, and when they finally pried it off, she couldn’t believe it. An orange tree, with tiny, greenish oranges on it, stood in a pot in the middle of her floor. Tied to one branch was a card that said:
“Happiness is: California for your birthday. I love you, Flora. Nils.”
At eight-thirty he called.
“Pack your bags, my dear. The flying ace is coming tomorrow to take you back for a wonderful weekend in the sun. And now for the big surprise. You know that television game show you like so well, ‘It’s Up to You’? Well, a friend of mine gave me two tickets for the Friday afternoon taping session. You’re sure to get on the show with these seats. What do you have to say?”
“Nils, you want me to spend the whole weekend with you? The whole weekend?”
“Good grief, you accuse me of living in the fourteenth century! So what? What could it hurt? Aren’t you just a little sick of the snow by now anyway?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. This is a chance in a lifetime. I’ll never be able to get such good tickets again. I know how well you like that show. Come on. I’ll be up at eight-thirty in the morning. It only takes two hours to fly, so we’ll be back here in plenty of time to go have a nice little lunch somewhere and then be at the studio … Florie, are you still there?”
“Nils, stop and listen to me for a minute. I cannot come down to spend any time with you, especially not an entire weekend. Now will you just stop planning and—”
“Not another word. I’ve heard it all before, but this time I am going to win. Tomorrow at eight-thirty. You’ll love it. And I love you. See you!”
She stood there holding the silent phone in her hand and hearing in her mind, “It couldn’t hurt, it couldn’t hurt.” Placing the phone gently back onto its cradle and sitting down, she began to think. “Could it really be so bad just visiting him? It probably wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it will be a good time to clear this up once and for all.”
She puttered around the room, packing a bag and muttering to herself how sane and innocent her decision was, but she avoided looking up when Jill asked where she was going.
She got ready for bed, and it occurred to her how long it had been since she had really prayed. She didn’t pray that night either. It just seemed that there was nothing to say lately. She wasn’t all that interested in what He had to say to her, anyway. She assumed she already knew and she pretended not to care. The thought crossed her mind before she went to sleep, “I’m a big girl now, perfectly capable of making decisions without everyone’s interference and assistance …”
Jill was shaking her, “Kristi, Kristi, wake up, honey. What’s wrong? You were shouting. What happened?”
It was 2:30 A.M. Kristi sat up and shook her head. “I almost lost. I really almost lost everything! How could anyone be so stupid? Oh, Jill …” She sat crying for a few minutes while her roommate held her, and then Kristi, the former Flora, picked up the phone to call Nils.

Elodie follows the Savior by being “anxiously engaged in a good cause” (Doctrine and Covenants 58:27). “My friends and I organize events to raise funds for less-privileged people or countries in distress,” Elodie says. “The money goes to buy clothing, books, toys, toiletries, and food. We also raise awareness for people who may not know about these things to see if they would like to help. We try to take a stand and help other people.”
In fall 2022, Elodie and her friends supported a charity organization in France that helps women with difficulties finding jobs or who need help supporting their families. They held a fashion show to raise money. They donated the funds to the organization in hopes it will support women in need and make a difference in their lives.
“It makes me feel happy that I am able to change something that was going wrong for somebody else,” Elodie says. “It’s also fun to get together with people to try to figure out how to get others involved and help them see that they can participate and also make a difference.”

Dear Buddy,
Your letter arrived just as Elder Watts and I were leaving for a baptismal service. Elder Watts is the district leader, which means that he’s in charge of all eight elders and two sisters in our district.
Anyway, the person being baptized was a seventy-year-old man named Richard Rockwell. He’s a very special person who was taught by Sister Adams and Sister South. Elder Watts conducted the baptismal service, Sister South gave a talk on baptism, Sister Adams gave one on the gift of the Holy Ghost, and I got to perform the baptism!
After I said the baptismal prayer, I glanced at Brother Rockwell. His eyes were closed, but his whole face was smiling, and tears trickled down his cheeks. I lowered him into the water completely and brought him back up, and for a few seconds we just stood there smiling at each other. Then he hugged me hard and whispered, “Thank you, Elder!” I felt like I was about to burst with joy.
After we changed into dry clothes, Elder Watts asked me to bear my testimony. Before I met Brother Rockwell, the sisters had told us that he had been studying the Bible most of his life but had never joined a church because he couldn’t find any that matched the one that Christ had organized. When the sisters taught him that ours does and that it has apostles and prophets and all the other offices, he became excited. And the more that they taught him, the more excited he became.
Well, in my testimony, I told about your letter and my model airplane. I said that if it’s going to fly, it needs all the right pieces in all the right places, just the way it’s shown in the blueprint that Grandpa and I used when we put it together. Then I explained that it’s the same with the Church. It has to have all the right pieces in all the right places, just the way it is shown in the scriptures.
Brother Rockwell beamed a big smile at me as I was talking. So thanks for your letter, Buddy. And don’t worry about my model airplane. I’m not angry. A little sad, maybe, but I know that accidents happen—especially when things get wild.
Give Rusty a big hug for me and tell him that I expect him to try harder to keep his human friends calm.
Love,Reed

Damon; King; Pythias. (Illustrated by Dilleen Marsh.)
Damon hurried along the cold stone passageway beneath the castle. He was looking for his friend Pythias, who had been arrested by the king’s soldiers. Damon searched among the prisoners until he found Pythias, who was chained in a dim corner of the dungeon.
“Why did they bring you here, my friend?” asked Damon.
Pythias reached his hand between the narrow bars to touch his childhood friend. “I am accused of being a rebel,” Pythias answered. “But I did nothing.”
The two young men did not hear the outer door open as the king entered the dungeon. He stood listening to the boys talk.
“How can I help you?” asked Damon. “Shall I go to your parents and comfort them?”
“If only I could see them again … , ” said Pythias. “If only I could say farewell to them … then I would return again to prison.”
The king laughed aloud. “So, you would come back to die if I would release you to say good-bye to your parents?” the monarch asked skeptically.
“I would come back,” Pythias said simply. “I promise that I would come back.”
“How do I know that you would keep your promise?” roared the king. His eyes glared.
Damon stood before the king. “Let me stay here in his place. Pythias has always kept his word. You may execute me if he does not keep his promise.”
The king could not believe his ears. This would be an interesting story to tell—a boy willing to risk his life for the promise of a friend. “I will grant your wish, Pythias,” said the king, “if Damon will take your place.” And so it was. Pythias was released, and Damon was chained in his friend’s place.
Many days passed. The king came to the prison to taunt Damon. “You will die for your friend—he has not kept his promise!” jeered the king. “Pythias always keeps his word,” replied Damon calmly.
Finally the day of the execution arrived. Many people came to mock the boy who had entrusted his life to his friend. “We told you that he would not return,” they jeered.
“He will come if he can,” Damon said. “It is a long way, and he will come if he—”
“Here he comes!” shouted a soldier. “Pythias has returned!”
Damon smiled as Pythias rushed to take his place. Storms and misfortune had delayed him, and Pythias could hardly breathe after his hard run. “I made it, Damon!” he panted.
“I knew that you would,” his friend replied.
The king was amazed. Never had he known that there could be such friendship and loyalty. His heart softened, and he said, “Go, Damon and Pythias. Go back to your homes. Keeping your promise has set you free.” Then the king turned to the crowd and said, “I would give all my wealth to have one such friend.” (Adapted from “Love Fails Not,” Sharing Time Resource Manual, page 57.)

Marshall was so excited to be in Nebraska. His baseball team, the Aces, had traveled from Utah to play in a tournament. So far it had been an awesome adventure.

“We’re going to win!” Marshall said to his friend Mason as they got ready for the championship game. The Aces were in the lead. All they had to do to win the tournament was beat the Mustangs from Mississippi. If they lost they would have to play a second game against the Mustangs to decide the champion.

Marshall and his teammates played the best they could, but the Aces lost the game. Marshall was disappointed. He was slowly walking back to the dugout when he heard the Mustangs’ coach call, “Hey, boys, come over here!”

“I wonder what he wants,” Marshall complained as he headed to the center of the field. He didn’t feel like being a good sport.

As boys from both teams gathered on the pitcher’s mound, the Mustangs’ coach congratulated them.

“That was a really good game, and you all played really well. We’re excited to play you again tonight. We hope that game will be good too. Now, Tyler,” he said to a boy on his team, “will you please offer a prayer for us?”

Marshall was surprised. He did not expect to be praying in the middle of a baseball field. He forgot about losing as he bowed his head and listened. He left feeling a lot better.

After the game Marshall and his teammates went to visit the nearby Mormon Trail Center at Historic Winter Quarters. As they walked around with their missionary guide, the boys told her about praying with the other team. Then suddenly Mason said, “Hey, I have an idea! If the Mustangs had enough courage to pray on the field, we should have enough courage to give them copies of the Book of Mormon!”

That sounded like a great idea to Marshall and the other Aces. They asked the missionaries if they could get 15 copies of the Book of Mormon to give to the Mustangs and their coaches.

Before the game all the Aces were excited about playing, but they were even more excited about sharing the gospel. “I hope they’ll read it,” Marshall said as he finished writing his testimony in a Book of Mormon.

The Aces all played hard that night, but they lost again. Marshall didn’t mind as much this time, though, because he was so excited to share his gift. After the game both teams gathered to shake hands and give congratulations. But this time the surprise was for the Mustangs. Marshall handed his book to one of the other boys. “I wanted you to have this. Thanks for playing and praying with us.”

“Thanks,” the boy said.

After the Aces passed out their books, the two teams bowed their heads for another prayer. Marshall was also silently thanking Heavenly Father for giving him the chance to be a missionary.

Picture with me a little six-year-old orphan girl traveling across the plains of America. Her name is Elsie Ann. Her mother died when she was two. Her father remarried, and so for a time she had a stepmother. Then her father died at Winter Quarters when she was five. Her stepmother remarried and moved away, leaving this little orphan behind with Peter and Selina Robison, who were related to her stepmother. Elsie Ann left Winter Quarters with the Robisons in July of 1849 to come west. As she watched Selina care for her 10-month-old baby girl, she no doubt ached for the love of her own mother. Sometimes she would even ask, “Where is my mother?”

My heart goes out to this little girl when I think of her facing her uncertain future with no blood relatives to comfort and help her. Elsie Ann was my great-grandmother, and only recently did we find out who her mother really was. For years we thought Elsie Ann was Jane Robison’s daughter. Careful research discovered her true parentage, and after all these years Elsie Ann now has been sealed to her father, John Akerley, and her mother, Mary Moore.