Gospel Story Finder

Most of us have been asked musically if we know the way to San Jose, and except in a general sense, most of us don’t. A lot of good Latter-day Saints call it home, however, and this article is about some of them.
Except that it isn’t about San Jose. It’s about San Francisco. There are a lot of fun things within easy reach of the young people in San Jose—everything from beach parties, to ski trips, to camping, to sailing, to sports and cultural events, to San Francisco, which is why this story happened.
San Francisco is about an hour from San Jose, just far enough to make it adventurous and close enough to make it convenient, and that’s how the priests and Laurels of the San Jose Seventh Ward came to make the trip one bright morning.
Their first stop was the Golden Gate Park, a giant green finger pointing out of the Pacific toward San Francisco Bay. They strolled in the shade of the gigantic trees and spent an hour in the lush beauty of the Oriental Tea Garden. They could easily have spent a day seeing the Park’s other attractions, but there was a city of 42 hills and 42,000 adventures waiting for them.
They visited the Golden Gate Bridge, standing on a windswept observation point and watching the vast red span stretch away from them. The intense blue of the bay was dotted with sails, and wave-swept Alcatraz Island looked foreboding in the middle of them.
Next they visited the quaint brick buildings of Ghiradelli Square and ate their lunches on the steps of a fountain there. Then, refreshed by the rest, they ambled along to Fisherman’s Wharf, passing on the street artists who sold their handiworks and street musicians who played in the open air, glancing hopefully now and then into guitar cases and hats where people would occasionally throw money.
One man sat in the back of a pickup truck parked by the curb and played an upright piano. Another innovative fellow climbed inside a painted box and billed himself as a human juke box. People put money in through a slot, and he played a wandering trumpet for them.
They walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, talking to the fish vendors and looking at the stacks of fresh crabs, lobsters, shrimp, and other seafood. Some of it looked back at them and snapped angry claws.
After spending some time observing the long rows of docked fishing boats, they boarded a cable car and rode up the steep hills to Chinatown. They walked up and down the steep streets lined with exotic buildings with upturned roofs, neon signs in Cantonese and English, and shops filled with the pungent aroma of unfamiliar foods.
By then the sun was getting low, and knowing the way to San Jose very well, they returned home.
Although San Francisco and San Jose are very nice places to know the way to when that’s where you want to go, these fine young Latter-day Saints also know the way to somewhere more important. They know the way home to their Father in Heaven, and they all bear testimony of their dedication to him and of the truthfulness of the gospel. When it was suggested, tongue in cheek, that it isn’t really possible to live the gospel fully outside of Salt Lake City, Utah, the whole group rose up in righteous indignation and explained almost simultaneously that there is no better place in the whole world for being a true Latter-day Saint than in San Jose, California.
They know the way in San Jose.

Out of all the blessings that Merci has received, there is one in particular that stands out to her: “I lost my mother at 15. With her passing came a lot of questions. However, these questions and the subsequent answers to them have completely shaped my life.” Through honest prayer, Merci has been able to receive comfort that she will be able to one day give her mother the same type of hugs her mother gave her as a little girl. “The truth of the gospel illuminates my everyday life and activities,” she says. “I know I am connected to the divine love of God, and that fulfills me in every way.”

“I love puddles,” Alice said. “Here, Puppy,” she called. “Let’s play outside in the puddles.”
Alice showed Puppy her rainy-day toy box. “First we’ll play with things that float,” she told Puppy. Alice floated a red rubber band, a blue feather, and a lollipop stick in the puddle. She and Puppy played with the floating things for a long time.
“Now let’s play with things that sink,” Alice said. She took out of her rainy-day toy box a heavy yellow button, a green marble, and a gold key. Alice and Puppy played for a long time with the things that sink.
“Now let’s splash in the puddles,” Alice said to Puppy. Alice and Puppy jumped and splashed in the big puddles. Alice made footprints on the sidewalk. Puppy made paw prints on the sidewalk.
Puppy barked because he was so happy. Alice sang a happy rainy-day song:
“I love raindrops
When they fall
Against my windowpane,
Because I know that
Soon there’ll be
Puddles from the rain.”
Alice and Puppy were very tired at bedtime. But before Alice went to sleep, she knelt beside her bed to say her prayers. “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for sending raindrops,” she whispered. “And thank you for puddles and for Puppy too.”

This story happened in the USA.
Carlos frowned at himself in the bathroom mirror. His face and arms were bright pink. His sunburn was worse than he thought. And he had lots of itchy bug bites on his arms and legs. Hiking with his Primary class was fun, but now his skin hurt all over!
Carlos looked at his backpack on the floor. The sunscreen and bug spray Mom had packed were still inside. He should have used them like she told him to. But he thought he didn’t need them.
Carlos opened the cabinet and found the little bottle his mom always used for sunburns. He rubbed the gel on his face. It felt cool on his hot skin.
Next Carlos put the gel on his arms. But he couldn’t find the bug-bite cream. Soon he gave up. He needed help. He would have to talk to Mom.
He found her in the kitchen. When she saw his sunburned face, she looked worried. Carlos thought she would get mad at him for not wearing sunscreen. But she didn’t.
“Are you OK?” she asked. “That must really hurt.”
“Yeah.” His head hung down. “Will you help me? Please?”
“Of course.” Mom led Carlos to the bathroom. She looked in the cabinet and pulled out a little tube.
“This should help the bites to stop itching,” she said. She rubbed a tiny bit of cream on each bite.
“There,” she said, closing the tube. “I hope that helps you feel better.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Carlos looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry I didn’t use the stuff you packed for me. I should have listened to you. I thought I knew best, but I didn’t.”
She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re welcome. Sometimes I think I know best too. Then Heavenly Father shows me that I didn’t know best at all.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Even grown-ups can make mistakes.”
Carlos laughed. Then he frowned. “If I had obeyed you, I wouldn’t hurt so much right now.”
“I think that’s how a lot of Heavenly Father’s children feel when they disobey Him,” Mom said. “They wish they’d listened to Him. And He hurts for His children when they’re in pain, just like I hurt for you now.”
“But He can help them feel better,” said Carlos. “Just like you helped me. Right?”
Mom smiled. “Right! When we repent, Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ can help us. And then we can make better choices in the future.”
Carlos smiled too. His sunburn and bug bites still hurt, but he knew he would heal. And next time, he could make a better choice!

Our experience on earth is sometimes overshadowed by the burdensome realization that we are imperfect mortal beings. Eventually the negative way I viewed myself and my body consumed all parts of my life. When I felt the weight of my imperfections growing, I would turn to destructive behaviors instead of to the Lord. These behaviors created a feeling of imperfection that was so heavy at times that I felt life wasn’t worth living. Ultimately the only place I could turn to was to the Lord. Through humility and repentance, I made an effort to be more consistent in reading the words of prophets with a purpose and praying to understand my surroundings with heavenly eyes.
No trial is too great when we turn to the Lord and accept His will, no matter the outcome. Contrarily, trials tend to feel burdensome when we attempt to force our will over His. By accepting His will, I found a higher level of clarity, and I began to see value in the person I was instead of constantly living in a state of inadequacy.

My classmates and I were staying overnight at Tanyllyn Lodge in the Welsh mountains as part of our sixth-form geography field trip. I was glad that my friend Louise and I were assigned to share a room.
It took us a while to get ready for bed. We took turns using the one tiny sink in the room and the even tinier mirror. Our clothing for the next day had to be set out along with our hiking boots and thick socks. Louise finished her preparations before I did and climbed into her bed.
When I had finished doing everything except saying my prayers, I hesitated beside my bed. Louise was not a member of the Church and had no idea I prayed each night.
My first instinct was to slip into bed as she had done and feign sleep while I silently prayed. But I anticipated two big flaws with that decision. First, I knew Louise would start talking to me and I would never make it through my prayer uninterrupted. Second, I was a little daunted by the next day’s grueling agenda and needed the comfort of a fervent prayer on my knees.
I vacillated in indecision for a few minutes, then turned to Louise and told her I was going to say a prayer. She looked a bit startled, but before she could say anything, I knelt at the end of the bed, bowed my head, closed my eyes, and offered a silent personal prayer. She was still watching when I rose.
There was a rather awkward silence as I crawled into my bed. As I anxiously searched for something to say, Louise said, “Sian, do you do that every night?”
“Yes,” I replied.
There was a slight pause, then the question, “What do you say?”
I was surprised. I had never really considered the possibility of someone not knowing how to pray. I told Louise I began my prayers by addressing our Father in Heaven. Then I thanked him for blessings I had received, asked him to help me, and closed my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ.
There was another pause, and during the silence I felt my heartbeat quicken. Before I lost my nerve, I asked her if she would like to pray with me.
“Okay,” she said, with curiosity in her voice. “What do we do?”
We knelt together by the side of the bed, and I said a prayer aloud. When it was over, I asked her how she felt.
She smiled shyly. “Well, you’ve given me something to think about.”
I don’t know what Louise’s thoughts were as we lay in our beds afterward. Mine were thoughts of gratitude. Lying there in the dark, I felt the Spirit confirming to me that we do have a Heavenly Father who loves us and listens to our prayers. I hope Louise felt it, too.

The day of the yearly dogsled race had arrived! Jody was up early and put on her warmest clothes. She smelled hot cereal as she walked into the kitchen. “Oatmeal again?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“You’ll need it on this cold day,” said her mother.
Jody filled a blue ceramic bowl with the hot oatmeal, put milk and brown sugar on it, and began to gulp it down.
“You don’t have to eat so fast,” Mom said. “The race isn’t for an hour yet.”
Jody tried to calm down, but her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. “I sure want to win those ice skates,” she said. She pictured herself gliding over the ice, then twirling into a spin like the professionals. But first she needed some skates.
After breakfast Jody put on another sweater, a hat, scarf, gloves, and her green parka. She tied a cotton bandanna loosely around her neck. If a cold wind blew off the lake, she could pull it up over her nose and mouth for warmth.
“Bye, Mom,” Jody said, kissing her mother.
Mom hugged Jody and wished her good luck. Jody bounded out the door and into the garage, where she pulled her small sled from a corner. The sled was old and scarred, but it would serve. Besides, it was the dog that counted, and Jody had managed to get the best. Ellie Manning had said that she could use her beautiful collie, Tasha. The dog had pulled lots of sleds, and Ellie would be there to encourage Tasha from the sidelines.
When Jody knocked on the Manning door, Ellie’s mother answered. “Hello, Jody,” she said quietly.
“Is Ellie ready?”
Mrs. Manning shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jody. Ellie has a sore throat and can’t go out in this cold.”
Jody’s smile faded, and she struggled not to cry. Then Ellie came into the foyer. “I’m sorry, Jody,” she said. “Mom doesn’t want me to get really sick like I did last winter.”
“That’s OK,” Jody said. Her stomach had a hollow ache in it.
“You can still use Tasha, if you like,” Ellie offered.
Jody’s heart leaped to her throat. “I can? Oh, thank you, Ellie! I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
Ellie whistled, and the collie ran to her. Jody laughed when Tasha crouched excitedly like a puppy, her back end sticking up.
“Good luck,” Ellie called as Jody and Tasha went out the door, where Jody fastened the sled harness onto Tasha.
When Jody arrived at the racecourse that circled the lake, only ten other contestants were there. The bitter cold and biting wind had probably kept others from competing.
Jody pulled her bandanna up over her mouth and nose. Carefully she lined Tasha up with the other dogs, then gave the collie a biscuit and waited for the race to begin.
The whistle blew, and they were off. Tasha ran bravely and boldly. “Good girl,” Jody called, coaxing the dog to go faster.
Jody looked back to see how the other racers were doing. A few dogs, shivering in the cold, hadn’t budged. One large black dog was going in the opposite direction! Only three were making any progress at all.
They passed the quarter- and half-mile marks, where small groups of hardy rooters cheered them on. At the three-quarter-mile mark, Jody felt Tasha slow down. She glanced at the snow and saw traces of blood. “Oh, Tasha! What’s wrong, girl?” She stopped the sled and knelt to look at the collie’s paws. One was bleeding quite a bit. She must have stepped on a sharp piece of ice or something! Jody thought. Looking back, she saw that none of the other sleds were even close to her! She could easily win the race since there was only a quarter mile to go! Then she looked again at the injured paw. Remembering her promise to Ellie, Jodi prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me make the right choice. I want to help Tasha, but I’m so close to winning the skates …”
When Jody stood, she knew what she had to do. She took off her bandanna and tied it around Tasha’s paw. Then she put the collie onto the sled and pulled her to the Mannings’ house.
“Thank you for bringing her home,” said Mrs. Manning after Jody explained what had happened. “If you hadn’t stopped, Tasha might have been permanently injured. We’ll call the veterinarian right away.”
Jody’s tears wet her face on the way home. She knew that she had made the right choice, but it still hurt to have come that close to winning the race and then have to drop out. When she got home, she changed out of her damp, cold clothing.
Later, while she was making some hot chocolate, her mother came into the kitchen with a big box in her hands. “This is for you,” she said.
Jody’s heart leaped when she opened the box and saw a pair of ice skates with sparkling blades. “Did you buy them, Mom?”
Her mother shook her head. “Mrs. Manning called the judges and told them what happened. Then they called me. They decided to award you the skates because none of the other contestants got as far as you and Tasha did.”

Three weeks ago, I stepped into Yesterday. In that moment, I rediscovered Today. And it is about Today that I wish to speak.
A Church assignment had carried me across the vast reaches of the Pacific to the land of Vietnam. For me, this was more than a flight over an ocean. It was a step back in time. More than 40 years ago, I had served on the battlefields of that land as an infantry officer. Etched in my mind over those intervening decades were memories of that place, its people, and my comrades in arms with whom I had served. Jacob once wrote, “Our lives passed away like … unto us a dream” (Jacob 7:26). So it had been for me. And now I was returning from my hall of memories to that place of memory after a near half-century. My Church business concluded, I determined to once again visit those fields of desperate struggle. Accompanied by my dear wife, I made the pilgrimage.
I am not quite sure what I expected to find after so many years. What I did find was most unexpected. Instead of a war-ravaged people, I found a youthful, vibrant population. Instead of a countryside pockmarked by shell fire, I found peaceful, verdant fields. Even the jungle growth was new. I guess that I had half expected to find Yesterday, but what I found was Today and the promise of a bright Tomorrow. I was reminded that “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).

As Marcia finished making the last invitation she said “There now, this party’s going to be lots of fun. It’s always good to be with special friends.”
The first two invitations were easy for Marcia to deliver. They went to Lora and Barbara who lived just down the street. Lora lived in a big white house.
“Hi, Marcia,” she said happily, opening the door. “I’m making cookies. Come in and help me.”
“Thank you, Lora,” replied Marcia, “but I can’t today. I came to bring you an invitation to a party.”
Lora’s eyes sparkled as she read the invitation. “Who are your special friends?” she asked.
“That’s a secret,” replied Marcia. “You’ll have to come to the party and find out.” She smiled and waved good-bye to Lora, then ran down the steps on her way to Barbara’s home.
“Hello, Marcia,” Barbara’s mother said as she opened the door. “Come in. Barbara’s out in back playing with the kittens.”
Marcia went through the kitchen to the back door “Hi, Barbara,” she called. “I have something for you!” A small gray kitten brushed against Marcia’s leg and she stooped down to cuddle it while Barbara opened her invitation.
“This sounds like fun,” Barbara said. “Who are your special friends, anyway?”
“Come to my party and you’ll find out,” Marcia said with a smile. This party is beginning to be fun already, she thought.
Marcia’s mother took her in the car to deliver the rest of the invitations. First they went to see Mary, who lived on the other side of Marcia’s school.
Marcia and Mary were not in the same class at school but they were good friends.
“Hi, Mary,” Marcia said when her friend opened the front door. “Will you come to a party at my house?”
“I’d love to,” Mary answered, her eyes shining in anticipation.
Mary’s mother came into the room and thanked Marcia and her mother for bringing the invitation. “Who are your special friends, Marcia?” she asked.
“That’s a secret,” Marcia answered with a smile. “Mary will find out at the party.”
Marcia’s cousin Susan lived on the other side of town. Susan was younger than Marcia but the girls always had fun when their families got together. Susan was delighted with her invitation. “Will all of your special friends be there?” she asked.
“Most of them,” answered Marcia.
The last invitation was for Connie. Connie didn’t go to the same school as Marcia, but they usually saw each other at Sunday School and sacrament meetings.
“A special friends party,” Connie repeated after she read her invitation. “This sounds like fun, Marcia. I can’t wait till Saturday.”
“You’ll have to, though,” laughed Marcia. “I’ll see you then.”
As Marcia and her mother drove back home, Marcia said excitedly, “I don’t know if I can wait until Saturday, either.”
Mary was the first one to ring the doorbell on Saturday afternoon for the party. Soon the other girls arrived and after she introduced them to each other, Marcia said, “I’m so glad you’re all here. At our last family home evening Dad explained that every friend is special in some way, so I decided to have a special friends party. I just wanted to say thanks to all of you for being my friends.”

“Besides having a good sense of humor, Dad cared about people. I remember seeing unemployed men come to his plant and wait for hours, hoping to get a job. He tried to hire one or two extra men every day. I went to him one time and said, ‘That man has been here every day for a week, and he’s hungry.’ I got my dad to hire him. Later in the day I discovered that the man had only potato peelings to eat for lunch. I went into the house and asked my mother to fix him a decent lunch. Then I took it out to him.
“Another good example my dad set for me was when he called me into his office and asked, ‘Do you know where the bishops’ storehouse is?’ When I nodded, he said, ‘OK, you go with the truck driver.’ We took five big barrels of chickens—about a thousand pounds of them—to the storehouse as a gift to the poor and needy from my father. I’ve never forgotten that day.
“Dad made donations like that to the storehouse several times. It was the old Pioneer Stake Storehouse, and it became the model storehouse for the Church general welfare program.
“Another important lesson that my dad taught me was to be totally committed to the Church. He said, ‘Son, you’ll either have to be a hundred percent or zero. You can’t be lukewarm. If you’re going to be active in the Church, you can’t go just when you feel like it; you can’t be hit and miss.’ He insisted on dependability, and I have been active in the Church all my life.
“My mother was a hard worker too. She did the bookkeeping and bill collecting for Dad’s business, and she served as a Primary teacher and a Primary president. The first recollection I have of the Church is of Primary. I’ve always had a good feeling toward it.
“When I was about five or six years old, my mother was so ill that the doctors thought that she would die. The patriarch came to our home and blessed her, and she got well. Later she wrote in her journal about how that priesthood blessing saved her from dying. It was a miracle, and miracles do happen. I’ve witnessed several of them, and I know that they happen today as much as they have ever happened in the history of the world.”

“I met a couple in Rennes, France, who had been members for several years. The story of how both of them gained testimonies by reading the Book of Mormon showed me the importance of the scriptures in the conversion process.

“Missionaries stopped by the Segaud home one day while tracting and left a Book of Mormon with Sister Segaud, the only one home. She put the book away with some other books and forgot about it.

“Brother Segaud had a growing interest in the Bible at that time, and spent many hours discussing it with one of his neighbors, who belonged to a Protestant church. Brother Segaud didn’t belong to any church because he believed all the churches differed greatly from the Bible.

“Several years passed, and once again missionaries knocked on the door of the Segaud home. This time Brother Segaud was there, and they talked with him and his wife about the holy scriptures and a book called the Book of Mormon. Sister Segaud said she thought she had that book somewhere around the house and disappeared in search of it. She returned a few minutes later with the book.

“The missionaries asked how they got the book. Brother Segaud said he had never seen it before. Sister Segaud explained that two young men had given it to her a few years ago, but she hadn’t even looked at it.

“The missionaries explained the book and its origins and asked the couple to read it. Brother Segaud said he’d like to read a book like that, but Sister Segaud wasn’t interested.

“Brother Segaud read the Book of Mormon and received the missionary discussions. He accepted the challenge to be baptized, but he wanted to wait for his wife. She was not so willing to accept the message the missionaries brought. She avoided the meetings with them and often hid the book from her husband. Still he never stopped hoping.

“He left the Book of Mormon in places where she could easily see it. He left it open to passages she might be interested in. But she never touched it. He continued to study the Book of Mormon, and he shared with her his thoughts and feelings about what he learned.

“Slowly, as the months passed by, her curiosity grew. She began to read a few sentences. Then she’d shut the book and put it away—away out of her thoughts. But her desire to know what the book said continued to grow.

“She began to read it secretly, and soon she was discussing it with her husband. Finally she wanted the missionaries to come and teach her the gospel.

“One year after Brother Segaud had accepted the challenge to be baptized, he and his wife entered the waters of baptism and became members of the Church. Now years later, they still bear powerful testimony of how the Book of Mormon changed their lives.”

My name is Brooklyn. There is a boy in my grade 3 class who has been quite mean to me throughout the whole year. When I asked my mom why he’s mean to me, she told me that sometimes people try to make you feel bad when they’re sad about their own lives.
Yesterday I came home from school a little bit sad because he was unkind to me again. Mommy said he was probably unhappy. I decided that instead of letting him make me feel sad, I was going to try to cheer him up. So I wrote him a card. It said that I noticed that sometimes he was sad, and I hoped my card would make him feel happier. I put a candy on the card and gave it to him. When he read it, he smiled. Then he said, “Thank you, Brooklyn.” He has been nice to me ever since.
My mom says that I showed Christlike love and saw him through the Savior’s eyes. If someone’s not kind to you, try being kind to them. It might take a month or a year, but you might finally get a smile back!

At Church activities I would ask myself, “Why don’t I have friends?” I felt sad and alone and went to God in prayer. I asked my Heavenly Father to send me good friends. It hasn’t been easy, but over time I’ve made many great friends. I’m not afraid to talk anymore and to get involved with groups of girls. I realize that Heavenly Father answered my prayers and that I was never alone.
Daiana I., age 16, Corrientes, Argentina

Ashley, a sister I minister to, and I both have cookbooks from our grandmothers. Hers is from her great-grandmother, and mine is a book I put together when I inherited my Grandma Greenwood’s recipe box after she passed away.
Ashley and I both chose a recipe from our cookbooks, and we got together after work one night to try them out. She chose a blondie dessert recipe, so we made it first and put it in the oven. I chose “pink chip dip”—a staple at every Greenwood family party. Ashley’s daughter Alice helped us taste test the food. Then, because Ashley didn’t want her kids to eat all the blondies, she cut them up and delivered them to the sisters to whom she ministers.
The thing I loved most about our recipe night is that as we cooked and baked, we talked about all the regular ministering topics—her struggles and mine. But we also talked about our grandmothers and moms, which was tender for both of us.
Jenifer Greenwood, Utah, USA

Ten years later I came back to my father’s home for a time. My father, who was the ward mission leader, invited me to listen as the missionaries taught two young ladies in his home. The missionaries challenged us to ask Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I accepted the challenge and spent 14 hours reading, meditating, and praying about Joseph Smith. It was a spiritual experience that is sacred to me. I read Joseph Smith’s history in the Pearl of Great Price twice that night. I prayed many times and stayed up all night. At nine o’clock the next morning I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that the gospel was true.
I went to the sister missionaries’ house and asked for baptism. They explained that they needed to teach me seven discussions. I told them, “Give me all seven right now. I need to be baptized.” Two days later, I was. I began at once to work in the Church and to study everything the Church published in Portuguese. I enjoyed it all immensely, and my testimony has been strong ever since. The Church and the gospel have given me everything I have, including my family.

Now that I had a testimony of the restored gospel, what about my ministry? I still had 10 months left in my contract as a minister. After much prayer and counseling with God, I decided to complete my service. For the next 10 months, I continued to share traditional Bible truths, but when possible I added the perspective of the restored gospel. People resonated with those truths, and my little flock grew from 20 to nearly 150.

After boot camp and military police school, I found myself assigned to an army base to work as a military policeman. One night I was given an all-night assignment to escort a convoy of prisoners from one camp to another.
During the night the convoy stopped at a halfway point for a rest. The commanding officer instructed us to go into the restaurant and drink coffee so we could stay awake the rest of the night. Right away he noticed that I declined. He said, “Soldier, you need to drink some coffee to stay awake the rest of this trip. I do not want any prisoners escaping or causing trouble on my watch.”
I said, “Sir, I respectfully decline. I am a Mormon, and I don’t drink coffee.”
He didn’t care for my answer, and he again admonished me to drink the coffee.
Again, I politely refused. I took my place at the rear of the bus, my weapon in hand, praying in my heart that I would stay awake and never have to use it. The trip ended uneventfully.
A few days later the same commanding officer invited me into his office for a private interview. He told me that even though he had worried that I would not be able to stay awake during the all-night trip, he appreciated that I had stood by my convictions. Then to my amazement he said his assistant was being transferred and he was recommending me to be his new assistant!
For most of the next two years I had many opportunities for leadership and managerial assignments. As it turned out, the positive experiences during my military service were more than I had ever dreamed possible.

First of all, Shawn Bradley is tall.
Not just the ordinary, over-six-feet, hard-to-find-trousers-long-enough kind of tall.
Shawn is the duck-through-doorways, watch-out-for-light-fixtures, can’t-fit-in-some-cars, look-over-the-heads-of-everyone-in-a-crowd kind of tall. He is literally the tallest person most people will see in their lifetime. His height simply astounds people.
But Shawn Bradley is more than a seven-foot-six freshman college basketball player. His honest concern for others and wonderful attitude about life hint at depths that match his amazing size. But first of all, before anyone can come to understand that inner person, there is Shawn’s height.
“I intimidate people,” Shawn says half apologetically, “just because I’m so big. It’s hilarious what some people do. It’s crazy.”
“Yeah,” says Justin, Shawn’s six-foot-two, 13-year-old brother, “when we see another seven-foot guy, we don’t think he’s so tall.”
Sitting in the front room of his parents’ home, Shawn doesn’t seem extraordinarily tall while slouching in a comfortable chair. But as soon as he stands up, the room’s normal eight-foot ceilings shrink. The doorways cause problems when Shawn forgets to duck. He and Justin sometimes get roughhousing together as brothers will do, “When I get chasing him around, once in a while I’ll forget,” says Shawn. “Then, wham! I’m flat on the floor. It knocks me silly.”
Teresa, Shawn’s mother, lists a few other adjustments they have had to make at home. “We had to extend our mirror up in the bathroom so Shawn can see. We’ve had to order him an eight-foot bed.”
Friends and family are completely used to Shawn’s height, but they find it entertaining to go places with him and notice other people’s reactions.
“My family treats me horribly when we go to the mall,” Shawn says, in mock complaint. Justin and sisters Tasha, 15, and Adrianne, 9, just smile because they know what he is going to say next. “We’ll all be walking together, my family and friends, and I’ll look around and no one will be there. I turn around, and they are about 20 or 30 feet behind me watching everyone look at me. I’ll say, ‘Thanks a lot, guys.’”
His sister Tasha adds, “You can’t believe the looks he gets.”
Doesn’t he get sick of it, never being able to go anywhere without causing a sensation?
“Sometimes he gets tired of it, but he loves it,” says Corinne Pugmire, one of Shawn’s best friends from high school. “He wouldn’t trade it for anything, and he’ll be the first one to tell you that.”
“I love being tall,” says Shawn. “I do get tired of people always looking at me and always saying things, but I try to represent myself in a good, upstanding manner for my faith and my family. I am what I am. I’m seven feet, six inches, and nothing is going to change that. I have to deal with it and live with it. My family and my coach have taught me to look positively at things. Make the best of the situation is a slogan I live by. Look for the best in everything. That’s what I’ve tried to do so far in my life, and that’s what I want to do the rest of my life.”
It’s the kind of attitude that would make anyone stand out in a crowd. Shawn gives a lot of credit for his positive outlook to his parents.
Teresa and Reiner met in a hospital. She was visiting a friend, and he was working his way through college as an orderly. When he walked into her friend’s hospital room, Teresa remembers thinking, “Boy, this guy is tall.” Standing six feet herself, she was aware of height. Reiner is six-foot-eight. “He remembered my phone number when I gave it to my friend and called me,” said Teresa. They were married a year later. It was while the couple was stationed in Germany, fulfilling an ROTC obligation in the army, that Shawn was born. After finishing his schooling as a medical technologist, Reiner moved his young family back to Teresa’s hometown of Castle Dale, Utah. They wanted a small-town atmosphere for their children.
“I wanted my children to become well rounded,” says Teresa. “I wanted them to participate in lots of different activities so that when the time came for them to choose what they wanted to be in life, they’d have a good background. It’s happening. My kids are involved in almost too much. We have animals, and they can sort of learn how to work doing chores.”
“No sort of about it,” Shawn interrupted. “We do chores. I like doing most chores, but the worst is in the middle of the winter when it’s snowing, and out in the corral it’s really yucky. The milk cow is wet and gross, and you have to go out and milk her at 6:00 in the morning when it’s ten below zero. It’s got to be the worst chore in the world.”
Shawn may have to face the cow in the freezing barn some mornings alone, but in everything else his family offers encouragement and love. “We were there behind him to support him,” says Reiner, “not to push him. I don’t think he ever felt pressure to play in any sport.”
Shawn loves to play baseball and was the second-string quarterback in football during junior high until he felt he couldn’t risk injury. He was on the high school golf team, although he’s quick to add that when they organized the eight-member team, only seven tried out. “They had to let me on.” He likes to horseback ride, rock climb, and water-ski with his friends.
“We knew quite early that Shawn would be good in basketball,” says Reiner. “I played ball with some men in the ward early mornings at the stake house. I asked Shawn if he would be interested in coming along. He went with me many mornings to the stake center and played with the adults when he was only eleven or twelve.”
Some time in his early teens, Shawn could beat his Dad in one-on-one. “I don’t remember when it happened. When Dad would win, it would make me feel bad, so the next time, he’d let me beat him. I never really knew when I could actually beat him.”
But Shawn is not quite so kind to his younger brother, Justin. Would he like to beat his older brother? Justin answers very quickly, “Yeah.”
Under his breath, Shawn mumbles, “It’s never going to happen. I’m not going to let him. When he beats me, he’ll know it.”
Of course, Shawn’s basketball prowess has not gone unnoticed. He has attracted national attention since he was in the ninth grade. College recruiters roamed around Castle Dale trying to persuade Shawn to consider going to their colleges.
But Shawn had one big requirement, and if schools would not agree, then there was no more discussion. Shawn told them that as soon as he turned 19 he would be taking two years off to serve a mission. That point was nonnegotiable. All the colleges that talked with Shawn agreed. His family supported Shawn’s decision as he selected a school. Teresa confesses to being delighted when her son chose to go to Brigham Young University, just about a two-hour drive from home.
As many prospective missionaries do, Shawn has thought about some of the places he may serve a mission. “I’ll go anywhere,” says Shawn, “but I hope I don’t go to Japan. We have a family friend who was six-foot-four who went to Japan and had an uncomfortable time. He said things there were built for short people.”
His mother adds, “We’re hoping he’ll go to a country that feeds missionaries really well so he can gain weight.”
And that brings up the subject of food. Shawn is too skinny for his height. He weighs 210 and is consciously working to put on weight. “I eat anything I can get my hands on,” Shawn explains. “It’s like a constant hunger. I can always eat.”
But serving a mission is more than living and eating in another place. It is teaching others about your deepest beliefs. Shawn has already had some experiences that have prepared him for teaching the gospel.
When Shawn was 15, he and a friend attended a prestigious national basketball camp with 120 of the best high school players in the United States. A new friend talking with the two Utah players had some pretty wild misconceptions about Mormons.
“He asked me, ‘There are Mormons where you’re from, right? Do you see them? Do you live by them?’
“I answered him,” says Shawn. “Yeah, we go to school with them. We see them all the time. Mormons are like you and me. They are normal people. They look like us. They dress like us. They act like us. They talk like us.
“He didn’t believe me until I said, ‘I can prove to you that Mormons are just normal people.’ He said, ‘How?’ I said, ‘We’re both Mormons.’ It really shook him up. A few days later, that kid started asking more about the Church and our ideals. He couldn’t believe we wouldn’t have sex until after we were married, and that we wouldn’t drink and stuff. It was a heavy-duty discussion for 15-year-olds.
“I ended up bearing my testimony to him. That is the best missionary tool in the world. I just couldn’t find a way of explaining everything I knew. But I knew it was true. It was an excellent feeling to know something is really true.”
Shawn finds himself more and more often talking about the Church. Besides his television interviews with national press, he spends time speaking at firesides. His friend, Corinne Pugmire, says people can sense his testimony. “When he speaks, you can tell that he is not making it up to impress people. He definitely has a strong testimony. He’s adamant about standing up for what he believes and not backing down one bit.”
Friends mean a lot to Shawn. He wants to be able to trust everybody, but he’s already met people who just want to take advantage of him. “Deep down I can sense their motives. I can tell when people want to know me for what I am, not who I am. I think it’s the Holy Ghost saying, be careful.”
“People ask, is he stuck up?” says Corinne. “He’s not at all. He’s down to earth. He’s always quick to say he’s sorry if he does something wrong. He’s totally cool.”
In his ward, Shawn’s bishop, Scott Johansen, says, “He’s just one of the guys. He’s quiet, friendly, and very considerate of others. He goes out of his way to cheer someone up. He would be an outstanding young man if he were five-foot-eleven.”
When asked to think about someone Shawn has helped, his friend Bill Wright thought for a fraction of a second before answering, “He’s helped me. He’s incredibly caring. He puts everybody ahead of himself. My mother died two years ago, and he was the only one of my friends who came to her funeral. That has stuck with me. He was so caring and thought about me so much.”
Then with a touch of amazement in his voice, Bill said, “I have a hard time even believing he’s my good friend because he is such an awesome friend.”
When asked what advice Shawn would give to young people, he said, “It bugs me when people don’t think well of themselves. They need to have high self-esteem. If I had advice for anyone anywhere, it would be that you have got to think of yourself as the Lord would think of you, as one of his children.” Maybe that’s part of Shawn’s secret, why he treats people with such kindness and courtesy.
And his ability to see the good side to things has something to do with his favorite scripture, 2 Nephi 2:11. [2 Ne. 2:11] “That’s the one that talks about opposition in all things,” says Shawn. “If something goes wrong, I say, well, there is opposition in all things. This is the opposition. You have to put it aside and go on.”
Shawn has learned how to take gospel truths into his life and let them guide his actions and decisions. It is in this way he continues to grow.
Yes, Shawn Bradley is tall, and he is definitely someone to look up to.

When I was a very small boy, my father found a lamb all alone out in the desert. The herd of sheep to which its mother belonged had moved on, and somehow the lamb got separated from its mother, and the shepherd must not have known that it was lost. Because it could not survive alone in the desert, my father picked it up and brought it home. To have left the lamb there would have meant certain death, either by falling prey to the coyotes or by starvation because it was so young that it still needed milk. Some sheepmen call these lambs “bummers.” My father gave the lamb to me and I became its shepherd.
For several weeks I warmed cow’s milk in a baby’s bottle and fed the lamb. We became fast friends. I called him Nigh—why I don’t remember. It began to grow. My lamb and I would play on the lawn. Sometimes we would lie together on the grass and I would lay my head on its soft, woolly side and look up at the blue sky and the white billowing clouds. I did not lock my lamb up during the day. It would not run away. It soon learned to eat grass. I could call my lamb from anywhere in the yard by just imitating as best I could the bleating sound of a sheep: Baa. Baa.
One night there came a terrible storm. I forgot to put my lamb in the barn that night as I should have done. I went to bed. My little friend was frightened in the storm, and I could hear it bleating. I knew that I should help my pet, but I wanted to stay safe, warm, and dry in my bed. I didn’t get up as I should have done. The next morning I went out to find my lamb dead. A dog had also heard its bleating cry and killed it. My heart was broken. I had not been a good shepherd or steward of that which my father had entrusted to me. My father said, “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” My father’s remark hurt me more than losing my woolly friend. I resolved that day, as a little boy, that I would try never again to neglect my stewardship as a shepherd if I were ever placed in that position again. …
After more than sixty years, I can still hear in my mind the bleating, frightened cry of the lamb of my boyhood that I did not shepherd as I should have. I can also remember the loving rebuke of my father: “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” If we are not good shepherds, I wonder how we will feel in the eternities.

The power of a plain, unadorned testimony is always impressive to me. I recall a twelve-year-old boy standing in front of a large congregation to share his testimony. As he stood trembling in fear and emotion, his voice failed him. He stood speechless; our hearts went out to him. The creeping seconds dragged on, making the silence of the moment intense. Prayerfully we hoped that he might gain composure and the ability to express his testimony. After great uneasiness and anxiety peculiar to a young person in such a circumstance, he raised his bowed head and softly said, “Brothers and sisters, my testimony is too small.” He cleared his voice and sat down. His message had been given. I thought then, as I think now, what a timely observation. Whose testimony isn’t too small? Whose testimony doesn’t need to be added upon? After this one-sentence sermon, I acknowledged before the congregation that my testimony was too small also and I was going to give it a chance to grow by more frequent sharing. I had been taught by a plain, simple statement.