Gospel Story Finder

We all have heroes, particularly when we are young. I was born and grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, in the United States. The most famous sports teams near where we lived were headquartered in New York City. It was the home of three professional baseball teams in those faraway days: the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Giants, and the New York Yankees. Philadelphia was even closer to our home and was the home of the Athletics and the Phillies baseball teams. There were many potential baseball heroes for me on those teams.
Joe DiMaggio, who played for the New York Yankees, became my baseball hero. When my brothers and my friends played baseball on the school grounds next to our house, I tried to swing the bat the way I thought Joe DiMaggio did it. That was before the days of television (this is ancient history), so I only had pictures from newspapers to use to copy his swing.
When I was growing up, my father drove me to Yankee Stadium. That was the only time I saw Joe DiMaggio play. As if I am still there, in my mind I can see him swing the bat and see the white baseball fly straight into the stands at center field.
Now, my baseball skills never came close to those of my childhood hero. But the few times I hit a baseball well, I copied the level of his powerful swing as closely as I could.

I learned a valuable lesson once long ago from a sweet lady, Sister Lucy Grant Cannon, who became violently ill while visiting her daughter in Arizona. We elders were promptly called, and we administered to her. The next day she was asked if she wished to be administered to again and her reply was, “No, I have been anointed and administered to. The ordinance has been performed. It is up to me now to claim my blessing through my faith.”

Let me give you an example. A young married friend of mine lost his little daughter in a tragic accident. In the months that followed, with the loneliness, the asking “why,” and the sadness, doubt began to enter his life. He told me that he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore. I suggested to him that in this difficult time he might want to yield to his doubts a little less and trust the words of the Savior and the Savior’s chosen vessels a little more. My friend pored over the scriptures, the promises of the Savior, and the bold, reassuring witness of the living prophets. He held fast to their sure testimony of the Savior when his own seemed to falter. He held fast to the iron rod. With time, the darkness dissipated, the tree came back into view, and he partook of the precious fruit of the Atonement.

Little finger puppets crafted by the young people of the Stillwater Oklahoma Stake take the sting out of a blood test for children at the local medical center. Over 50 young men and young women got together to make over 200 bunnies, snowmen, and chickens that just fit the fingers of small patients at the hospital.

Having a finger pricked for a blood test is a necessary but often traumatic experience for children. Gail Vest, the coordinator of the project, thought the finger puppets would help turn the tears into smiles. She went to the stake’s young people to see if they would like to make it a service project. The project was performed with enthusiasm, and the hospital is delighted with the results.

One Sunday night about three months after I had moved from my native Mexico to the United States to attend school, I flipped through several radio stations trying to find some good Sunday music. As I listened to several local stations, I heard a familiar voice and stopped.
I suspected that the voice was that of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910?2008), who was President of the Church at the time. I realized that it was odd for me to be able to distinguish his voice. I was accustomed to listening to general conference, Church Educational System firesides, and other Church broadcasts through the voice of a Spanish interpreter speaking over the speaker’s voice. Yet somehow I knew the voice on the radio was that of President Hinckley.
I wasn’t yet fluent enough in English to understand what he was saying, but I listened to the talk on the radio anyway. His voice brought a feeling of peace. When the talk ended, the radio announcer said, “We have just heard President Gordon B. Hinckley.”
I knew that the Lord speaks through His servants and that whether the message comes by His voice or that of His prophets, it is the same (see D&C 1:38).
I thought about how unusual it was that I had recognized President Hinckley’s voice. Having done so made me realize that I always want to be able to recognize the voice the Lord uses to communicate with His children—regardless of the source.
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me,” the Savior said (John 10:27).
In a world filled with many voices—many “stations”—to flip through, I hope I can always be attuned to recognize the voice of my Shepherd and His servants and to be willing to follow their counsel.

Bruce eased his paddle into the lake water, slicing the dark substance noiselessly, watching the droplets drip from the end of his wooden blade, interrupting the rhythm of his strokes to observe the shimmering return of water to water. Wet diamonds, Bruce thought, as he watched the droplets recombine with the lake.
For the moment, they were the richest and loveliest jewels he could know.
It was late September, and the predusk air was just beginning to acquire the distinctive and leafy mustiness of early autumn. The Connecticut evenings were chilly already, yet Bruce sensed the first morning of frost was still weeks away. When he was younger, the coming of the frost mattered little to him, for September meant only one horrible and inescapable event: the removal of freedom. He was not conscious of beginnings then, as he was today; he was aware only of endings. He smiled as he pushed the paddle deep into the water again, for he could still feel the horrible cringe in his mind that haunted him during the last weeks of summer every year. How he hated to relinquish the freedom of his summer to the walls of a school.
And they had been extraordinary summers. After finishing his job at the pet shop or completing his gardening assignments at Geysmar’s estate, he would hop into his beat-up VW, pick up Bob at the gas station, and they’d rumble and downshift their way over the winding roads to the lake. A few cans of soda, some bug repellant and fishing tackle, and they were set at least until dark. Sometimes longer.
Again Bruce smiled, this time more to the familiar back that occupied the forward seat of his canoe than to the endless water. He had picked Bob up tonight at his gas station, both of them curious to try out the old fishing spots one more time before Bruce took off for Utah and then Germany. They had left the station at 4:30, and when they arrived at the lake, there still were a few hours of daylight left.
“You really think there’s fish left in this puddle?” Bob asked, as he and Bruce lifted the canoe off the roof of the Bug and carried it over their heads to the water’s edge. “Bet the acid rain has just about wiped this place out.”
“Sure there’s fish. How can you doubt it? You just have to find them.” But they had found none so far, Bruce had to acknowledge, though the reawakening of memories had been well worth the trip.
“Hey Bruce, can’t you remember those stars?” Bob said. The silent onset of dusk had begun to slip in over the lake. “Don’t you remember those nights?” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “It really isn’t that long ago—just two years since the last time we were up here, right? But man! Those stars. Sometimes when I work the pumps at night now, I remember those stars.”
How could anyone forget them, Bruce thought, checking his line for bass as Bob spoke. They had been trolling the lake for about a half hour now, but still no luck. Sometimes it was like that.
“Those stars, Bruce.” Bob laughed. “Man, I still can’t say what they make me feel.”
They stopped paddling, then floated freely, words stuck in the stuff of their memories. Suddenly it seemed to Bruce that he was 14 again, and he and Bob were lying on their backs on the seats of their old rowboat, their lines limp at the side of the boat.
“Hey Bruce, do you think there’s ever an end to those stars?” Bob had asked. And Bruce had felt it then, as surely as he knew it again this evening, that the stars stretched on forever.
“Can’t you imagine a wall out there, Bruce? Can’t you feel it? You know, all of a sudden you reach the end of the space, and then there’s this big giant wall. Bam! That’s it. The big end.” And they had laughed.
But Bruce had found that he had to stop laughing that night. The waters licked softly at the base of the boat; a peeper sounded from the shore. There was nothing but blackness in the middle of the lake, all that black and silent water. Bruce shook his head vigorously, shutting his eyes, sitting up so suddenly that he hurt the bones in his back on the seat of the boat.
“No way, Bobby,” Bruce said, still shaking his head. “I just can’t handle that. It’s like something cracks—snap!—in my head. You know what I mean? I just can’t handle a wall in space. I just can’t handle it ending. Things have got to go on. Don’t you think, Bobby?” But it was more feeling than thinking, he knew.
Nights like that had made it easier to believe the missionaries, Bruce realized, when they had come knocking on his parents’ door. Nights like that had helped his new faith to seem almost reasonable. If space was endless, then life was endless, and endless life demanded a God. And if there was a God, Bruce just couldn’t imagine any other church being truer than the one that the missionaries had taught to him. He’d felt it as sure as he felt the warmth of the sun. And so he’d done it. He’d slipped gently into the bright waters of baptism, knees bending, his white clothes clinging to him as he felt his body going down and then up, lifted from the wetness by some power much greater than skinny old Elder Larsen. He had felt himself rising from the waters, a new person.
Water. It was always water for him. Once, when he was ten, he had tried to walk on the lake water. Lying on his back on the dock near his parents’ old cabin on the lake, he had become curious with the possibilities of faith. He had heard the story countless times in his Methodist Sunday School of the Savior walking on the water, but now his wondering made him restless. If he had enough faith, would the substanceless substance become firm beneath him? He stepped confidently out, then fell clumsily into the water.
“You caught any fish back there?” Bob asked, snapping Bruce back into the present.
Bruce looked at his line; it hung lifelessly in the dark.
“Maybe it’s time to head back,” Bob suggested.
Bruce said nothing. It was hard to stop fishing. He was always filled with the wild hope of just one more minute, just one more moment of patience, and then the tiniest movement of the line would come. If you weren’t careful, you would miss that gentle sign of interest, and the hope would be gone.
“Another 15 minutes, Bob. Let’s wait till it’s real dark. Then we’ll go back.”
Bruce reeled in his line, then pulled the pole back and cast out with one final hope for success. Setting the rod in the bottom of the canoe, he turned in the seat to get more comfortable and bumped his pole in the process. It jerked precariously, the line getting caught under the bow of the canoe. Impulsively, Bruce reached his hand into the black and unknowable water, the dark liquid now fused with the dimming horizon that was tentatively lit by a few of the earliest stars. Bruce tugged at the trapped line with his hand, freeing it, and then, for some reason, felt reluctant to let it go. Unexpectedly, the line raced through his enclosing fingers, pulled taut with certain promise.
“Hey Bob!” Bruce called softly, carefully pulling his hand in from the water, unwilling to disturb the pulse of the line. “I think I’ve got something, my friend.”

When I was a young girl, I desperately wanted my brother, Juan Fernando, to run and play like other children. When I asked my mom why he couldn’t, she said he had suffered a severe brain injury at birth from lack of oxygen and would never be able to do those things.
My brother spent his entire life in bed. Because I was raised in the Church, I understood and accepted his condition and knew the greatness of his spirit. Nevertheless, my young heart longed for him to be like others, even though I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to watch him walk or run or speak.
I was worried about who would take care of him if the rest of the family died before he did. In heartfelt prayers I pleaded with Heavenly Father not to take us before He took Juan Fernando. I knew He would answer me.
My brother was 16 when he died on a cold winter afternoon, leaving a tremendous void in our family. We felt sadness but also hope. A few days after he died, I fell asleep while thinking about him and had a beautiful dream.
I was walking, but my vision was dimmed by clouds. I could see something in the distance, so I continued walking slowly toward it. As I drew closer, I saw that it was a wagon full of beautiful flowers. While staring at them, I noticed a handsome young man, dressed in white, standing by the wagon. I paused a moment, trying to recognize him, and then I realized it was my brother. I was so happy to see him. He spoke to me, and I wanted to hug and kiss him. Then I woke up.
I was so grateful that I heard his voice and saw him looking whole. I can only imagine the moment when we will meet again. I’m sure there will be hugs and kisses and loving words—all thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Because of the Savior we will all rise from the grave and can be reunited as families, never to be separated again.

When I was serving as a mission president, a man called me to ask permission to baptize his mother in his ward rather than his mother’s ward. I asked “Why?” He responded, “Because I do not like her bishop and I will never forgive him for what he did.” When I heard those words, “never forgive him,” my concern shifted from his mother’s salvation to his, and I told him that. I shared the scripture about forgiveness in the Doctrine and Covenants that I just mentioned and asked him to ponder and pray about his request. He called a few days later and told me that he had been a member most of his life, and had read those scripture passages many times, but that somehow in his circumstance he had felt justified in not forgiving. He had finally realized that the commandment to forgive all men, meant all men and he forgave the bishop and felt the joy of forgiveness.

TJ shivered. Even with the warm air blasting through his bedroom vent, he was still cold! He missed Hawaii more than ever.
TJ missed surfing in the ocean and hiking in the mountains. He missed his friends. Ohio was OK, and it was fun to see snow again, but he still felt pretty lonely.
And cold.
TJ heard a soft knock on his door, and Dad stuck his head into the room. “Hey, buddy,” Dad said.
TJ smiled. “Hey, Dad.” Right before they moved, Dad had come home from military deployment in Afghanistan. Moving was hard, but having Dad home was awesome!
Dad sat next to TJ on the bed.
“I just had an idea,” Dad said. “Let’s run a half-marathon together. We’ll make our own training plan. We can even start running tomorrow. What do you think?”
TJ looked out the window. It would take a lot of work to get ready for a 13-mile (21-km) race. “How can we run in the snow?”
“Why not? We can do anything together. It’ll be an adventure!”
It was still dark the next morning when they left the house, TJ with a pocket full of jellybeans and Dad with a bottle of water strapped to his belt. They both wore long-sleeved shirts, sweatpants, hats, and gloves, but every muscle in TJ’s body still clenched against the freezing wind.
I can’t believe I let Dad talk me into this, he thought.
It was hard at first, but as he and Dad ran and talked together, TJ almost forgot to notice the cold. Dad told TJ about his adventures as a kid and how serving a mission had changed his life. They talked about their favorite movies and cars and how Dad met Mom in Texas. TJ tried to convince Dad that ham and pineapple pizza was way better than pepperoni.
Before TJ knew it, they were back home.
We did it! he thought. He gave Dad a high five. Then they went inside for hot chocolate.
Together Dad and TJ mapped out a four-month training plan. They would train inside on a treadmill during the week, and every Saturday morning they would go for a long run outside. On Friday and Sunday they would rest.
One Saturday, TJ skipped and stayed in bed, but as soon as he heard the front door shut, he wished he’d gone with Dad. When TJ asked Dad how the run was, Dad said, “It was OK, but I missed you. It wasn’t the same without my running partner.”
After that TJ never missed a run. Soon he was looking forward to their Saturday runs all week! While they ran, TJ told Dad about his new school and Dad talked about military training and some of his adventures around the world. TJ’s favorite stories were from Dad’s mission. He hoped he could go on a mission someday, just like Dad.
By the time the snow melted, TJ decided he kind of liked Ohio. He still missed his friends in Hawaii, and he still didn’t like the cold, but he noticed his loneliness fading away. He was glad he’d done something challenging and stuck to their plan. He was part of an awesome two-man running team, and together they could do anything. He couldn’t wait to run their race!

Again, when I was a missionary, in the same village I referred to above, I came to know everyone. I remained there for a year and half with a total of two companions. After the experience with Labwujtok our teaching efforts accelerated. We were teaching a man named Amima Alik whose wife and some of his daughters had already joined the Church. Amima knew the truthfulness of the restored gospel but retained some personal challenges to overcome. But once he did, he became a backbone to the Church in the village. During one discussion we were considering eternal families and sealing ordinances. As we sat on mats in his humble home one evening, with a small wicker kerosene lamp providing light, he looked upon our picture of a beautiful temple, and he ruminated out loud, that such a blessing he could never realize. As a school teacher, he earned a little more money than some in the village, but he still greatly supplemented his subsistence by fishing and farming. His total annual salary was barely enough to buy two plane tickets to Hawai’i, and then how would they live for the rest of the year? All I could do was kindly submit that somehow, someday, he would be sealed to his wife. But honestly, I supposed I was offering an unrealistic hope to smooth over a moment of resignation.

This discussion was over 33 years ago. A few years back Elaine and I received a phone call from the temple to come up to help with some new patrons from the Marshall Islands who had just arrived. I felt pressed for time with my university and church responsibilities, but sensed I needed to somehow make arrangements to go. The temple president asked if I would interpret from English to Marshallese in the initiatory area for the new male Marshallese patrons. When I passed through the curtain to assist with the first brother I immediately stopped still, this man gazed up at me with a huge smile that quickly turned to tears. It was Amima. As he received the first part of this sacred ordinance I tried to interpret for him in his language, but I could barely utter the words through my tears and choking voice. Amima was shaking and wiping his eyes. The ordinance worker was puzzled, but knew something special was going on. In that moment I witnessed the power of unified souls, and we both knew God had given us a gift, that he had brought two points of time together, so we could both see his hand in this great tapestry of weaving together his purposes for the benefit of individual souls. For the remainder of the endowment Elaine and I aided as escorts for this great couple, and then, I served as a witness to their sealing as a couple and family. Time, temple and perspective, it all came together powerfully in the due time of the Lord.

Amanda can make gelatin. She is the “little mom” of the family and helps out with the three younger girls. In stores, people often stop and stare at the seven children, and Amanda likes to lag behind and answer questions. As her eighth birthday approached, she counted down the days until she could be baptized. Due to unusual circumstances, the water in the font at the stake center was freezing, but she didn’t mind the cold. Her father did, though! “I had to do it,” she said. “I wanted to be baptized so much!” Dad just hopes the next baptism comes in the summer.

A friend of mine from South Carolina has demonstrated that even multiple problems can be overcome when one is true to his faith in God.
Laurie Polk is a dwarf. From the time of his birth, life has been a challenge. When he became old enough to go to school, he pedaled himself on a tricycle in order to move about and keep up with the other children. When his short legs kept him from playing games and participating in athletics, he busied himself in preparing for a vocation in the business world. To obtain employment, he found it necessary to persist and to prove himself. When a job opportunity finally came to him, he found joy in life through his love for his work.
Then another challenge arose. Laurie Polk, already extremely limited in his physical mobility, lost the sight in one eye. Nearly complete loss of the use of his crippled, dwarfed legs followed shortly thereafter. Then, as if that were not enough of a trial for any man, the retina of Laurie’s other eye became detached and complete blindness encompassed him.
Where did Laurie Polk gain his strength to overcome such darkness and despair? Through the power of faith in God, Laurie Polk has learned the meaning of life. In his thirty-four inch frame, he possesses a strength not unlike the sons of Helaman, through which he not only overcomes the personal challenges he encounters—he actually finds joy in living. He knows he can solve any problem by putting his life in harmony with God and serving his fellowman. He says, “With the help of the Lord there are no problems, only challenges.” Laurie Polk is now a high priest group leader in the Charleston South Carolina Stake.

Over a year ago Kaj approached me with an opportunity to engage in a good cause. No this has nothing to do with eternal marriage or engagement, as some students have thought this past week as they noticed the devotional flyers and caught the first two words "Anxiously engaged." I was on my way to an afternoon history class and he called earlier to see if we could ask me something in person. Prior to this meeting we had only known each other through a few encounters and a few occasional family home evenings. So I met with him a few minutes before the class started. When I arrived he said to me, "I have been thinking about running for BYUHSA President but I need someone to run with." I was taken back by surprise. I remember asking "Well have you thought of anyone else?" He told me that his original partner was unable to do it and that I was another option. My first thoughts were "you've got to be kidding me" followed by "well, maybe I should pray about it." I asked him for some time to think it over. He replied "oh yes, absolutely...but can you think it over in 30 minutes because the deadline is in 30 minutes." I was everything but anxious. I obviously said yes and signed my life away to a year contract with BYUHSA. But it has been a decision that I absolutely do not regret and have been ever so grateful for.
I remember the thoughts and feeling I had as I signed and initialed the various forms of the application. Am I even qualified for this position? How can I possibly do this? Thoughts of doubt and fear danced around in my head. So often when we are faced with opportunities to expand our horizons and become more than what we are, Satan attempts to put thoughts of doubt in our minds. We sometimes limit ourselves thinking "well that's not for me" or "I am not that type of person." I am afraid that sometimes we tend to wander around the wastelands of self-doubt. We doubt our ability to influence others for the good. We are blinded from divine potential and become instilled with a fear of failure.

Photographs of the ward courtesy of Nolfo Zambrano
If someone offered you a piece of delicious banana bread, how would you react? For the young men in a ward in Ecuador, that’s one way they start conversations about the gospel.
Every two months they have a missionary day with open houses in a different area of their ward. They split into several teams, each made up of a young man, a full-time or recently returned missionary, and an elder or high priest. Some of the groups work at a tent, some go to contact people in the park, and some go door to door.
When they meet someone, they offer the person a piece of banana bread. When the person accepts, he or she is told that although the bread is delicious and good for the body, the missionaries have a message that will be nourishing to the person’s soul. The young men and their companions then invite the person to meet with the missionaries. In this way, they’ve been able to get 40 to 50 referrals for the missionaries in a couple of hours.
The young men also fellowship the members of their own quorums. On Saturdays they meet for a Young Men activity and to work on Duty to God. Then they visit the less-active members of their quorum. They encourage them to attend church and then invite them to come back to play sports or participate in another activity.
In this way and many others, these young men are preparing to be lifelong missionaries. Two of them (at right) share how they feel strengthened and inspired by their experiences.
I have been a member of the Church for five years. My parents are not members, but my uncle Jorge is the Young Men president, and he has been a great support. I am also grateful to my bishop for his constant support and encouragement.
I decided to get closer to the Church after one of the missionary days they had in the ward. It was one of my first experiences that motivated me to join the Church. As a deacon, teacher, and now a priest, my leaders have always supported and encouraged me to participate in all of the missionary work activities. I like the open houses, where I have the opportunity to share with others the blessing of being a member of Christ’s Church. What inspires me most are the service activities, where I have the opportunity to serve my neighbor as Jesus taught us to do.
A year ago, my younger brothers, Luis, age 15, and Israel, age 12, joined the Church. Together we have been working on the projects in Duty to God, and since their baptisms we have shared wonderful experiences working together. All of the young men in the ward are very close, and we support each other.
I know that baptism is the gate to enter the kingdom of heaven. When we are in the service of our fellow beings, we are in the service of God (see Mosiah 2:17). Missionary work blesses families, and I know that my life has changed because of the gospel.
Alvaro T., 17
As a deacon I learned my responsibilities thanks to the support of my parents and leaders and working with the goals in the Duty to God booklet. As a teacher I learned more by going to do visits as a home teacher, participating in the open houses on the missionary days, sharing banana bread, attending Mutual, and participating in ward and stake activities.
Now as a priest I get to focus more on missionary work. Working with the Young Men president and as an assistant to the bishop, I have learned much more about my responsibilities as a priesthood holder.
Our leaders constantly invite us to come with them and the full-time missionaries so that we can become familiar with missionary work. They also exhort us to read the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. All of these experiences motivate and prepare me to receive the higher priesthood and to serve a full-time mission.
Isaac G., 17

Seminary student Girly Mbuli explains how her faith and love of the scriptures saved her from a terrible situation.
“One day my friend Tiny Gugu and I had to go to Zondi to take some books to another girl. On our way back we saw a gang of boys. Gangs here rape girls, steal cars, do everything horrible. We started to run, but it was too late.
“The boys faced us. They had weapons. They made us go up on a hill and meant to do awful things to us. On the way up the hill, I was saying a prayer to my Heavenly Father. I don’t remember which scriptures I tried to say, but I kept thinking of them. I asked for help to be calm and not afraid. I felt peace come into my heart.
“When you are on top of that hill, you can see everything. The boys looked down and asked where I was staying. I pointed to Jabulane and something told me to say I was with my grandmother and my friend Lindiwe.
“The leader looked at me and said, ‘You are not afraid. Let them go!’ I later found out the brother of my friend Lindiwe is the boss of this gang, and he stays in the house of my grandmother. That is why they let us go free.
“When I tell this story to people, they refuse to believe we survived. But I know I did and I know why. It was because of my faith in Heavenly Father. I know that Isaiah 1:18 can be true for those guilty gang boys, if they will repent: “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.” [Isa. 1:18]

My friend Rachel asked me if I would attend church with her. She was active in her own faith, and I was curious to see how her church was different from mine. I asked my parents for permission to go with her. They said that since her worship service time did not conflict with our meeting times, I could attend.
Many things about her church’s service were unfamiliar to me: the songs and the prayers were different; the way the preacher spoke was unfamiliar. When the offering plate was circulated, I wasn’t sure what to do.
Finally, the preacher asked anyone in the group who hadn’t publicly accepted Jesus Christ as his or her Savior to come forward. Rachel whispered, encouraging me to go. I was hesitant. In our ward the bishop had never asked anyone to come forward and publicly accept Christ. I didn’t know what to do. Perhaps I hadn’t done something that was important for my salvation. I left the meeting confused.
As I thought about this experience later, I came to realize that I had indeed publicly accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior. I had been baptized by one having priesthood authority from Jesus Christ. My baptism was a covenant with Heavenly Father that I would take upon myself the name of Jesus Christ and be His disciple. I promised that I would keep His commandments and try to be like Him. Present at my baptism were priesthood holders who acted as witnesses, as well as family and ward members.
Since my baptism and confirmation, I have had the opportunity every Sunday to partake of the sacrament and witness once again to my Heavenly Father that I will continue to take upon myself the name of Christ.

The ballerina glides across the stage—spiraling, spinning, then springing into the air so easily it’s as if she caught gravity napping. She is in every movement a fluid expression of freedom.
Like many little girls, when Maria Victoria Rojas Rivera of Chile—Mavi to her friends—was four years old, she decided she wanted to become a ballerina. And like all of those other little girls, she quickly discovered that the grace and freedom she saw on the stage came at a pretty steep price. The effort and discipline required to become a professional ballerina are too much for many young dreamers.
“When you’re little, you don’t understand the sacrifice it takes,” Mavi says. “When I started studying at age 10, our teachers told us that half of our lives would be spent dancing. We’d have to give up a lot of things.”
Things like free time and certain foods. Mavi would have to put a lot of time and effort into exercising and practicing. She’d have to watch carefully what she ate. And after schoolwork and dance, there wouldn’t be much time for friends.
Mavi decided that her dream was important enough to her to try.
“The teenage years can be a complicated time,” she says. “My friends didn’t always understand why I wouldn’t eat certain things or stay out late with them.”
Mavi learned early on that what appeared to be restrictions on her freedom were actually the only way she could free herself from things that would keep her from her goal.
“I chose not to stay out late, and I chose to spend time practicing instead of going to the mall with my friends,” Mavi says. “If I was tired because I stayed out too late or if I didn’t know the steps because I didn’t practice, I couldn’t dance.”
That kind of discipline isn’t easy, but Mavi says it is worth it.
“Everyone has moments when you want to give in,” Mavi confesses, “but you have the power to choose. Discipline can appear restrictive, but self-discipline is a choice. And I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to dance.”
At some point during her drive to become a ballerina, Mavi realized that dancing was not the only goal she had or the only worthwhile thing she would need to sacrifice for.
Along the way, she gained a desire to follow Jesus Christ, and she realized that what ballet had taught her about discipline applies to gospel discipleship as well. Just as her friends had wondered why she would do what she did for dance, they asked why she lived such restrictive gospel principles.
“I explained that we have the liberty to choose, and I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to be free from sin and have the Holy Ghost with me,” she says.
Or as the Savior said it, a disciple must “take up his cross,” meaning to deny oneself all ungodliness and every worldly lust and to keep God’s commandments (see Joseph Smith Translation, Matthew 16:26). Such self-discipline brings us to “liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator,” while trying to live outside the commandments leads to “captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Nephi 2:27).
“Obedience brings greater freedom and peace than anything,” Mavi says. “My goals aren’t limited to this earthly life but include eternity.”
Mavi floats across the stage like a leaf carried by the current, stretching and flowing from one move to the next—développé and pirouette, glissade and grand jeté.
A ballerina can make her body move in ways that would hurt most other people. This freedom of movement is essential for communicating with the audience. But even though a good ballerina makes every move look effortless on stage, she has put in a lot of effort off the stage.
After eight years of sacrifice and hours of training almost every day, she was living her dream on stage—and in the gospel.
“People think it looks so beautiful and graceful,” Mavi says. “But the movements are very controlled. It takes a lot of strength to control yourself like that.”
The gospel parallel is important. Following Christ takes strength. And the rewards are sweet.
“The rewards from so many sacrifices are that I can dance,” Mavi says. “I feel strong, and I feel the guidance of the Holy Ghost in every step I take—on stage and off.”
According to Nephi, once we’ve felt the desire to follow Christ and have been baptized and confirmed, we must still endure to the end (see 2 Nephi 31:19–20). For Mavi, ballet requires similar dedication.
After dancing in Paraguay, she returned to Viña del Mar, Chile, to teach for a few years. Now she wants to take her dancing to the next level. She has set new goals that have taken her to Argentina, Germany, Ireland, and Spain to study and audition with different ballet companies.
She knows she must continue to strive—both on the stage and in the gospel. She must continue with discipline if she wants the freedom to dance. And she must continue in faith if she wants the freedom that comes from discipleship. “If ye continue in my word,” the Lord taught, “then are ye my disciples indeed: and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:31–32).
Mavi has to put in a lot of effort off the stage to stay healthy and in shape. Aside from watching what she eats and getting enough rest, Mavi exercises a lot, and she dances at least five hours almost every day. But she doesn’t take care of herself just because she’s a dancer.
“As a member of the Church, I understand that my body is the temple of my spirit. As an artist, I need every part of my body to work right, so I protect it as best as I can. But as a member, I already knew I should do that.”
Her testimony of the Word of Wisdom’s inspired nature has been strengthened by her experience with ballet. “When you treat your body right, you can tell,” she says.
You have to take care of yourself to be a ballerina, but Mavi says, “We should all take care of our bodies, even if we aren’t dancers. We don’t get to choose our bodies, but we should all be grateful for and take care of what we have been given. They are gifts from God, and we’ve each been given our body for a purpose.”

We live in an environment where there is much of litigation and conflict, of suing and countersuing. Even here the powers of healing may be invoked. As a young man I worked with Elder Stephen L. Richards, then of the Council of the Twelve. When he came into the First Presidency of the Church, he asked me to assist him with a very delicate and sensitive matter. It was fraught with most grave and serious consequences. After listening to him discuss it, I said, “President Richards, you don’t want me; you want a lawyer.” He said, “I am a lawyer. I don’t want to litigate this. I want to compose it.”
We directed our efforts to that end, and wonderful results followed. Money was saved, much of it. Embarrassment was avoided. The work was moved forward without fanfare or headlines. Wounds were closed. The healing powers of the Master, the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ, were invoked in a delicate and difficult situation to compose what otherwise could have become a catastrophe.

Image from Getty Images
The winter morning was clear and cold in the predawn hours as I began the morning chores on my dairy farm. My mind was heavy as I reflected on the events of the past week. Tragedy had struck our small valley. An old high school friend of mine, along with his young son, his teenage daughter, and three of her friends had been killed in a terrible car crash. My children had been friends with the girls in the accident. Our family, and many others, had spent the week grieving this tragedy along with the families involved. We had attended three funerals already that week and would be attending the final funeral, for the father and his two children, today.
I was struggling with two main questions as I came to terms with what had happened.
First, I grieved for and wondered why these young children would be taken before they got to experience so much that life has to offer. They would not grow up, marry, serve missions, have children, and experience so many other joys of mortal life.
Secondly, although I felt that we as a community wanted so much to offer comfort to the families, it seemed that there was nothing we could do, no effort that could touch their grief.
As I worked, I was surprised by a visit from the father-in-law of my friend who had died. As a fellow rancher, where the work never stops, he needed to buy a calf immediately. After the transaction was made, we talked for a while about how he and his family were doing. I voiced to him my wish that I could do something more for them. I felt so helpless to ease their pain. But I was impressed at how calm and peaceful he seemed in spite of what his family was going through.
Suddenly I realized that the answer to one of my questions had been there all along. I had been worrying about how to provide comfort to my grieving friends, forgetting that true comfort and peace comes from the Holy Ghost. These families were blessed with an added measure of that comfort from Heavenly Father that only He can provide. I knew that they were receiving the Lord’s comfort, spoken of in the Book of Mormon:
“He will console you in your afflictions, and he will plead your cause …
“O all ye that are pure in heart, lift up your heads and receive the pleasing word of God, and feast upon his love; for ye may, if your minds are firm, forever” (Jacob 3:1–2).
After we said goodbye, I stepped out of the barn and noticed the full moon setting in the western sky. It was a beautiful sight. Then I turned around and saw the sun rising in the east. It was as if the whole sky was alive with color. The setting moon had been lovely; the rising sun was breathtaking. As I paused to think about this contrast, it came to me that no matter how beautiful and happy we think our mortal lives are, they pale in comparison to the beauty and happiness that lies ahead if we are faithful and obedient. I realized that those who had died had not really lost anything. They had been valiant in their life on earth and would be going on to greater experiences and joys.
Later that day, I attended the final funeral with my family. We met that day in an overflowing tabernacle, literally bursting at the seams with the support of an entire community. That day and for some time after, the people of our valley experienced a special peace. Parents held their children a bit closer, and we realized that our earth lives are short and we must express our love to family and friends more often. I was reminded of the Lord’s love for us and the beauty of the plan of salvation. This life is not the end; there is much beauty and happiness and joy to come.

A few days ago, I went to a local supermarket, quite late at night. I had had a long day. Working with clients and then studying, my day didn’t finish until 10 p.m. I decided to just run in and grab a few items.
The night was cold, and I was glad to finish and load my shopping in my car. As I did so, a woman approached me and asked me for some help. I imagined that she wanted a coin for a trolley or something like that. She looked a little dishevelled. She began a long explanation about not having any money, and that she and her partner had hoped to purchase £5 worth of petrol for their car, because this particular petrol station made a charge on cards 24 hours later and they didn’t have any money until the following day, only to find that the petrol station was closed. Now they would have to travel further to buy what they needed, with no funds available.
I explained that unfortunately, I didn’t have any cash or my cards with me. I only had my phone. I was aware that the night was dark and cold, and I knew I wanted to help, but felt I couldn’t. She then asked me if I would transfer some money into her bank, using my phone. I admit, I did not want to do that! Now I was having to really ask myself what kind of human being I was. I had to balance my wish to just go home, to let myself off the hook, with my desire to be helpful. I could reassure myself that my intention was to be kind, but honestly, transfer money into a stranger’s bank account? What if this was a scam? What if I was being tricked?
Then she asked me if I would call her partner, to allow him to give me his bank details (he was in the supermarket, trying to find a solution.) Everything in me wanted to say no, and yet another part of me said, “it’s cold and dark, you can’t just leave them here.” I wanted my faith to be convenient! In my version of this story, I would give her £5 that I happened to have in my purse (that I had not left at home), and then get on and feel good about myself. I wanted her to accept that I didn’t have any ready cash and go away. I didn’t want to stand about getting cold and feeling anxious and worry about whether I was doing a good thing or being taken advantage of.
Yet through it all, I kept thinking, “it’s cold and dark.” I had to let myself know about the times when I have been cold, in the dark, with no one to help. None of this was easy, or quick, or convenient.
So, I transferred the money and wished them well.