Gospel Story Finder

Kim listened as her grandmother told the family about her mission call. “I’m going to work in the Denver Temple. I’ll be an ordinance worker there.”
Denver! It was over fifteen hundred miles away. Kim had learned that in her fourth grade geography class. “Why do you have to go there?” she asked.
Grandma turned to her. “I don’t have to go there, Kimmy. I want to. That’s where the Lord needs me.”
“But we need you here.”
Grandma smiled. “I’m glad that you want me to stay. But it’s time I started getting on with my life again. Ever since your grandpa died, …” She didn’t finish, and Kim watched as tears rolled down Grandma’s cheeks.
Kim’s grandfather had died the year before. Since then, her grandmother didn’t smile as much as she used to. And when she did smile, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It stayed right on her lips as if it was too tired to stretch any farther. Kim remembered when her grandmother was always smiling. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, sending little lines to turn up at the edges.
“Laugh lines,” Grandpa had called them. He had liked to tease Grandma, and he’d laughed when her cheeks turned rosy with embarrassment. Grandma pretended she was mad at him, but Kim knew she wasn’t.
When Grandpa died, things changed. Grandma came to live with Kim’s family, but she didn’t bustle around as she had before. Mostly she sat by the window, staring out. Once when Kim asked her what she was looking at, Grandma smiled one of her half-smiles and said, “I’m remembering, child,” and Kim understood that Grandma was remembering Grandpa.
But now Grandma was going away. “Why does it have to be the Denver Temple? Can’t you serve right here in the Washington Temple?”
“The Lord has called me to Denver,” Grandma said simply.
Grandma spent the next two weeks saying good-bye to old friends. The Saturday she was due to leave, Kim stayed in her bedroom, refusing to go to the airport with the rest of her family. “I can’t,” she told Mother. “I don’t want to see Grandma leave. I’ll miss her.”
“I’ll miss her, too,” her mother said, “but I’m glad that she’s going to serve a mission. Do you remember how happy Grandma was when she cooked Christmas dinner for us?”
Kim nodded, puzzled. What did Christmas dinner have to do with Grandma serving a mission?
“Grandma was happy then because she was serving others. Do you remember how much she enjoyed baby-sitting your cousin Elizabeth when Aunt Carol had to go to the hospital?”
Again Kim nodded. She was beginning to understand. Grandma was happy when she was serving others. “When Grandpa died, did Grandma stop being happy because she couldn’t take care of him anymore?”
“That’s part of it,” Mother said. “She loved Grandpa very much. When he died, I think she felt empty inside. Grandma is happier now because she has a chance to serve someone else. Someone very special.”
Kim knew who that someone was. “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s right. Can’t you be happy for her too?”
Kim thought about that. Of course she wanted Grandma to be happy. Hadn’t Kim been the one to spend hours with Grandma right after Grandpa died so that she wouldn’t be lonely? But Kim also remembered all the times Grandma had sat in her rocking chair, just rocking back and forth, her eyes sad. “Wait, Mom. I have to change my clothes. I want to go to the airport too.”
People scurried through the airport to catch their planes. Kim kept a tight hold on Grandma’s hand. At the gate where Grandma’s plane waited, Kim squeezed her hand even more tightly. “I’m going to miss you, Grandma,” she said, trying hard not to cry.
Grandma bent down to kiss Kim’s cheek. “I’m going to miss you too.”
“I’ll write every week,” Kim promised.
“Me too,” Grandma said, brushing away a tear.
Kim reached up to hug Grandma. “I’m happy you’re going to serve a mission.”
“Thank you, my little Kimmy.”
Kim’s mother, then her father and little brother hugged Grandma.
Kim watched as her grandmother boarded the plane. That night, Kim started a letter:
“Dear Grandma,
“I’m going to tell all my friends that you’re serving a mission in the Denver Temple. I’m very proud of you. …”

Youth Voices: Why We Need to Stop It!
The New Era asked some youth how they felt when they heard President Uchtdorf’s talk and why they think it’s important to “stop it!” Here is what one young woman says:
“I love [President Uchtdorf’s] talk! It inspired me to stop gossiping and judging people. It truly had an impact on my life. This talk convinced me to talk to my group of friends about how we should stop with all the hate towards others. They took my words and put them into action. We have often found ourselves having a better day just because we were nice to someone. It was an amazing life lesson.”
Taylor L., 14, Utah

The famous Santiago de Compostela Cathedral in the northwest region of Spain is the supposed final resting place of the Apostle James, the brother of John. It is an impressive structure with a world-renowned organ. Over 100,000 Catholics travel to the city each year to visit the Shrine of St. James inside the cathedral.
When Elder Tyler Clair Neel and his companion, who are serving in the Spain Bilbao Mission, visited the cathedral, Elder Neel asked for permission to play the “awesome” organ. The dean of the cathedral directed him to the organist and permission was granted.
“I’m probably the first Latter-day Saint to ever play the Santiago Cathedral organ, and I played hymns of the Restoration!” Elder Neel said about the experience. In fact, Elder Neel was able to play the organ three times. And the cathedral organist enjoyed the hymns so much that Elder Neel presented him with a large-size, spiral-bound copy of the LDS hymnbook as a thank-you.
In the photo above, Elder Neel is playing the organ at the cathedral in Leon, Spain, one of his previous areas.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Hey—let’s go spray some graffiti like the big guys.
No! That’s against the law, and it’s wrong. Let’s help Mrs. Gibbs clean her yard instead.
Ooooh, it’s wrong! Come on, guys, are you with me or with Chicken Boy here?
It’s not chicken to do the right thing!
Later
So I couldn’t convince one single person to do the right thing.
You’re wrong about that.
How do you know? You weren’t even there!
You convinced one very important person—yourself. And some of those boys might remember your example.
Plus, you set an example of courage for me.
So I’m kind of your hero?
Don’t get carried away!

Life was still difficult, so much so that I left home for a brief time to give myself moments of reflection. I went to a friend’s house outside of Abidjan. One day around 6 am, a voice said to me: “Get up quickly and join your children in Abidjan”.
When I arrived, my children taught me that they should be baptized at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose missionaries had previously taught my children, but to whom I paid little attention because I was not attracted to religions. I was therefore invited to attend the baptism of my children at the Quatre Etages Ward.
Bishop Etian’s speech had a positive impact on me. It was the story of the “King with the Severed Finger” told by Muslim folk wisdom. A king had a finger cut off during the hunt and imprisoned his advisor who told him to let Allah (God) prevail in all things. Sometime later the king and his retinue were captured in the bush by cannibals who did not want him because of his disability. He was therefore the only one released and his life spared. He ran to deliver his servant, apologizing profusely. The latter replied that God is never wrong and that everything works together for our good. He said, “If you hadn’t put me in jail, I would be with you, captured, devoured by the cannibals, and probably dead today.”
From that moment on, I made a firm resolution to take my life and that of my children totally into my own hands by being baptized. From then on, I decided to forgive my husband for the wrongs I had suffered. My husband is still not in our home, but I have a more brotherly and kinder relationship with him through the power of forgiveness. I undertook income-generating activities that have allowed me to provide for my family and especially to ensure the schooling of my children for more than 15 years. Today, two of my daughters are starting careers as teachers in public schools. My last son has just been admitted to the university for which I am looking for ways to finance the courses. They make me proud. I have been able to go to the Accra Ghana Temple where I was endowed and sealed to my deceased parents.
I hope one day to be able to remarry in the temple to have an eternal marriage. The lessons I draw from my life is that everything works together for the good of one who believes in God.

Blessings come in surprising ways. In February 2013, I had been serving for six years as an Area Seventy in the Pacific Area and had been asked to extend for a seventh. We had, however, been invited to the Office of the First Presidency, and my wife, Kay, and I were waiting to meet with then-­President Dieter F. Uchtdorf in his office. The thought that he was about to call me as a General Authority had not entered my mind, and we were even more surprised when he told us that we would be living and serving in West Africa until we received a new assignment some years in the future.
We did not suspect that our hearts were about to be filled with love for the wonderful West African people. But they quickly were. Immediately we arrived in Accra and began to meet the members of the Church and others in the countries of Ghana, Nigeria, Côte d’Ivoire, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Togo, Benin, Senegal, Guinea, Mali, The Gambia, and Burkina Faso. What incredible blessings we have received, and what wonderful eternal relationships have been forged.
“I think the Spirit of the Lord is brooding over Africa,” said Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve in the first of two videos about the growth of the Church in Africa after years of political strife. “His hand is on the work. His Spirit is stirring the people,” said Elder Holland.
This has been most evident to Kay and me in the incredible growth we have witnessed here. Just before our arrival, and earlier in July 2013, the 38th stake of the Africa West Area had been created by Elder Joseph Sitati in Warri, Nigeria. And then in June 2018, I was blessed to preside over the creation of the 100th stake in the Africa West Area in Lagos, Nigeria. These 62 additional stakes (29 in Nigeria, 13 in Ghana, 9 in Côte d’Ivoire, 4 in Sierra Leone, 4 in Liberia, 2 in Togo, and 1 in Benin) were created in less than five years!
And the 100th stake was formed just 30 years after the first ever West African stake. I have personally had the privilege of forming the first branches in Dakar, Senegal; Conakry, Guinea; and Bamako, Mali; and of witnessing the land of Senegal dedicated for the preaching of the gospel by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I have accompanied this same Apostle as he dedicated the new Ghana missionary training center, and I have been blessed with numerous other spiritual experiences.
The growth, however, has not simply, or even primarily, been in numbers. Kay and I, together with the other members of the Area Presidency, are witnesses almost daily to incredible faith in the face of adversity and temporal poverty. But there is no spiritual poverty in West Africa. The region is rich in those things most precious—the faithful sons and daughters of God. And the mandate of our Saviour for West Africa as so clearly stated in the following verses has been accepted: “And if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may be edified in all meekness, that he may become strong also. . . .
“Behold, this is the way that mine apostles, in ancient days, built up my church unto me” (D&C 84:106, 108). In fact, it has been embraced as our united call for action in the phrase “one take one.”

Entering the school yard, Ana opened the sack and took a last peek at her gift for the box. It was beautiful! She smiled, knowing how wonderful it would make someone feel. Two years ago, when her family had first moved from Mexico, someone had left a Christmas box on their doorstep. In it were oranges; a ham; hot chocolate mix; chewy caramels; and soft, white mountains of divinity, which melted into nothing on the tongue. Six homemade Christmas socks, one for each family member, were filled with surprises. And now she could share the same thrill with someone else.
“We come from Mexico. The first Christmas in our new country … , we are very sad. Then a box—a Christmas box—was left at our house. The note says, ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Country, from your secret friend.’ ‘Thank you,’ we shout to the night. ‘Thank you.’”

Some years ago I was visiting family, when the bishop asked me to conclude the sacrament service. As I was coming down from the stand, a woman approached me with her seven children and introduced herself as Sister Rebecca Guzman.
She asked, “Elder Rasband, do you know Rulon and Verda Rasband?”
I beamed and replied, “They are my parents.”
You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.
When I met Rebecca and her family at church, we took a photograph of her family with me. I took it home to my elderly mother, and she held it close to her heart. Then she said to me, “Ronnie, this is one of the happiest days of my life.”

The supreme evidence of his love occurred in June 1844 when, having had it revealed to him by the Lord that his enemies sought his life, he had planned to journey into the West and find a place for the Saints where they might be safe. He had crossed the Mississippi when word came from his wife Emma, “The Saints think you are a coward. They are charging that you are running away.” From Joseph came these famous words: “If my life is of no value to my friends, it is of no value to me. Hyrum, we are going back.” (See Essentials in Church History, p. 374.)
As he rode out of Nauvoo on his way to Carthage to give himself up to the sheriff, he turned in the saddle, and looking back upon the city of Nauvoo, said, “Oh, that I could but speak once more to my beloved people.”
On the highway, he met Steven Markham who said to him, “Joseph, where are you going?” He answered, “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am as calm as a summer’s morning I have a conscience void of offense toward God and toward all men.” (Essentials in Church History, p. 376.)

Allison crouched behind a bush and waited. Her bike lay behind her, just out of sight over the crest of the hill. Although she had been there for more than an hour, she waited patiently. She was sure they would come today, and she would be ready for them.
She had been ready all summer, ever since her family moved to the small town of Bethel shortly after school ended.
“Go out and ride your bike around the neighborhood,” her mother had urged her. “You’re sure to meet someone that way. There must be kids your age around here.”
So Allison had ridden her bike up and down the streets of Bethel. She saw older kids and younger kids but no one her own age. No one except a girl two streets over, and she was in a wheelchair.
“Well, get to know her,” Mother had encouraged her. “I’m sure she’s very nice, and there are a lot of things you could do together. Maybe she needs a friend too.”
“She can’t ride a bike,” Allison had pouted. Her bike had been just about the most important thing in life to her ever since she decided to train for the Tour de France international bike race.
“Well then, you’ll just have to wait until school starts in the fall,” Mother told her. “There will be kids your age in your class at school.”
So Allison continued to ride her bike around the neighborhood, feeling lonesome and sorry for herself.
Then she found the dirt track. She came upon it one day when she was riding along the country road on the edge of town. High weeds lined the sides of the road, and she almost rode right by the opening to the path.
Feeling the excitement of an explorer, she followed the path off the road. Insects flew from both sides of the weeds as she pedaled slowly along it. Several small mice and a rabbit scurried for cover as she passed.
She was about to turn around and go back, when she came upon a clearing surrounded by low, bush-covered hills. In the center of the clearing was an oval dirt track. Although it appeared to be abandoned, the track was still flat and smooth and ready for racing.
My very own race track! Allison thought as she started to ride around it. Then she noticed wheel tracks ahead of her in the soft dirt—two tracks, each about the same width as the impressions left by her own tires.
As she followed the tracks, she noticed that they were always the same distance apart. Here were two riders so in tune with one another that when one curved slightly to the left, the other followed in a perfect arc!
They must be best friends, Allison concluded, feeling the pangs of her recent isolation. They know each other well enough to ride together perfectly. I wish I had a friend like that.
Well why not? she wondered. Even if the mysterious riders weren’t her age, or even if they were boys, they still liked to ride bikes, and that was all that mattered.
So she waited. Two days in a row she sat just out of sight behind the bushes on the hill, anxious for the riders to come. She had it all planned. Once the two riders appeared, she’d walk her bike down the hill and meet them as if by accident. Then, if all went well, she’d have two new friends and they’d ride off together side by side.
Now, her third day of waiting, she heard a rustling in the weeds. They were coming at last! Allison caught her breath as she saw the girl in the wheelchair from two streets over wheel herself onto the track.
What’s she doing here? Allison thought angrily. What if the two bike riders who are supposed to become my best friends don’t come because she’s here?
She watched as the girl in the wheelchair picked up speed. By the time she was halfway around the track, her wheelchair was nearly flying as her muscled arms pumped furiously. Allison was impressed. Walking her bike, she hurried down to talk to the girl.
“Hi! My name’s Sandy,” the girl in the wheelchair offered as Allison approached. “That’s a nice bike you have.”
“Hi! I’m Allison.” Seeing a stopwatch fastened to Sandy’s chair, she blurted out, “How fast were you going?”
“Two seconds faster than last week,” Sandy answered proudly. “Don’t laugh, but I’m training for the Olympics. I’m sure wheelchair racing will be an official sport by the time I’m older.”
“Really? Good for you! Don’t you laugh, but I’m training for the Tour de France.”
“Well, let’s train together, OK?” Sandy motioned for Allison to come on as she took off down the track.
Allison grinned and hurried to catch up. When they’d almost completed a lap, she hit a rough spot and reached out to steady herself on Sandy’s wheelchair. Looking back, she noticed three perfectly parallel tracks in the dirt.

Let me encourage you faithful married couples without children at home to go on missions. The Lord needs you out in the mission field. Forget your fears. We don’t expect you to do everything the young missionaries do. In fact, I was in Idaho trying to eliminate the fears of some high priests, and I said, “You retired couples don’t have to memorize scriptures like the young missionaries, you don’t have to memorize any presentations unless you want to.” I told them, “You don’t have to get up early in the morning like the young missionaries do to study, and if it is raining or snowing, you don’t have to go outside until you feel up to it. …” At that point a fellow down in the middle shot up his hand and said, “When can I go? That’s a better life than I’ve got now!”

A friend—we will call him John—shared what can happen when we see another’s less visible need: “A sister in my ward attempted suicide. After two months, I discovered no one in my quorum had approached her husband to address this traumatic experience. Sadly, I had not acted either. Finally, I asked the husband to lunch. He was a shy man, often reserved. And yet when I said, ‘Your wife attempted suicide. That must be overwhelming for you. Do you want to talk about it?’ he openly wept. We had a tender and intimate conversation and developed a remarkable closeness and trust within minutes.”
John added, “I think our tendency is just to bring brownies rather than figure out how to walk into that moment with honesty and love.”

I was just a young boy when I sat in a stake conference in the Tooele Utah Stake, listening carefully to the visitor. He was LeGrand Richards, and he preached the gospel in his warm and spiritual way. That positive experience has stayed with me. I don’t remember what he said, but I do know how I felt as he spoke. I learned later that I felt that way because I was listening to a special witness of Jesus Christ. I knew he knew, and somehow my roots grew deeper that day as to truths of the gospel.

For some people, like Emily Nielsen, 16, the temple brought special blessings.

“For me personally, the temple is very important,” said Emily. “My choicest memories have been made there. Our family adopted a baby, Matthew Kimball, and he was sealed to our family in the Los Angeles temple. As my brother and I followed our parents in their beautiful temple clothes into the temple, I knew that we’d be together forever.

“During the Atlanta Temple open house, I had a personal tour and was able to see rooms in the temple that weren’t shown on the regular tour. I had been very concerned about my mother’s health and was afraid. When we got to one of the sealing rooms, I asked if I could be left alone for a moment to pray. As I prayed, the Spirit came upon me, and I knew that everything would be all right and that the Lord loved me. And even though my mother died five months ago, everything is all right, just like the Lord promised me.

“The temple and its ordinances are special to me because, I know that through them I will be with my best friend, my mom, again, and that our relationship will last forever. I also know that if I live worthily, I’ll be able to be married in the temple to my eternal mate, and my mother will be there because she promised me.”

Where’s José Luis?
That’s what I wanted to know. I’d heard so much about the energetic 18-year-old, and I only had a few minutes to interview him on that hot Sunday in Seville, Spain.
“I think he’s in Sunday School with one of our investigators,” said a tall, North American missionary as he hurried his way through the crowd in the halls of the Nervion meetinghouse.
“He’s always with our investigators,” said the missionary’s shorter companion, trotting to keep up. “That guy is one sharp mission leader. He keeps all the full-time missionaries on the ball. He just goes crazy over missionary work.”
Before I could ask which class José Luis might be in, the missionaries had disappeared into the colorful throng. The church was packed, and everyone seemed excited to be there.
Across the foyer I spotted Marcos Camacho. Marcos is José Luis’s home teaching companion. “Marcos, where’s José Luis?” I called.
“He might be preparing our home teaching lesson,” Marcos told me as he threaded his way through the large group of people between us. “He’s very good about it. We always get our home teaching done, and the people we visit really like him. Oh look—here comes his mother. Maybe she knows where he is. Ask her,” he said as he ran off to teach the Young Men.
His mother? What was she doing here? I’d heard she was against his church activity and had prohibited him from coming to the chapel. Now here was this lady, all smiles, soft curls, and a perky pink dress, coming toward me.
“Hi there,” I said as she approached me. “I’m looking for your son, but I’m really happy to see you. I’d heard you were not excited about your son’s coming to church. It looks like your attitude has changed?”
“But it wasn’t quite that easy, Mom,” said José Luis, popping up behind her, seemingly out of nowhere and putting his arm around her shoulder.
So finally I got to meet this legendary guy. He’s taller than his mother, medium height, with thick, straight dark hair and a perpetual smile. You can tell he’s from southern Spain, Andalucia, by his accent and his vocabulary. Even though he’s famous here for being a gospel dynamo, there is absolutely nothing intimidating about him. He’s about as humble as you can get.
“I know that Christ lives and that Heavenly Father always listens to us and loves us,” José Luis said, simply and sincerely. “I want everyone else to know that too. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I’m supposed to be helping a friend with a lesson,” he said, and he was off.
So for all of about five minutes, I could have answered the question, “Where’s José Luis?” But if you asked me right now, I could probably make an educated guess.
“Where’s José Luis?”
He’s out doing what he can to build the kingdom. And that’s a great place to be.

I remember the many times my dear mother trusted in our Heavenly Father for my safety. I played quarterback at East High School in Salt Lake City and running back at the University of Utah. During all that time I don’t think my mother ever stopped praying for my safety. She trusted in our Father in Heaven, depending on Him to protect me from major injury during the games. Although I had my share of bumps and bruises, I never had a major injury.

I suppose my mother breathed a sigh of relief when I told her I was going to leave the football field for a season. I met with my beloved bishop, Marion G. Romney, to express a desire to serve a full-time mission. But that short, worry-free season soon ended when I was called to serve in the German-Austrian Mission. Three months after I arrived in Salzburg, the name of the mission was changed to the Swiss-Austrian Mission.

The year was 1937. I arrived in Salzburg, Austria, at the very time Hitler was amassing 300,000 troops on the border for the Anschluss, his invasion of Austria.

My mother and father gathered the family to kneel in prayer morning and night and pled for my safety. I know that I felt the influence of those prayers. I trusted my Heavenly Father would hear their prayers. I trusted in my prayers that He would preserve my life.

A month before Hitler invaded Austria, I was transferred to Switzerland. My testimony is that our prayers had been answered.

I still miss my brother, Sergio. He, my sister, and I were very close. We spent a lot of time together and had a lot of fun. We loved to play and joke around. Before Sergio went on his mission, he baptized me. Sadly, though, he passed away while serving in Peru.
I believe that Sergio is in a better place and that he is an angel. My sister, Ximena, and I feel blessed to have him as a brother, and our parents feel blessed to have him as a son. I know that he is waiting for us. We must put forth our best effort to become an eternal family so that we can all be together forever.
I know our Father in Heaven loves us and wants the best for us. I love my parents and my sister very much. I try to take care of them and help them however I can, including working with my parents in our family store.
Sometimes I still get sad, but I can’t stay that way because I know that Sergio is happy, that he is in a safe place, and that he is all right. He loves us and protects us.
I have faith that we are going to be together again and be an eternal family. This faith helps me to stay strong.
Ruth O.,14, Argentina

A number of years ago a young man who is an excellent skier went with friends to the wilds of the Yukon to experience the ultimate in deep-powder skiing. A helicopter took them high into the mountains, far away from safety, ski patrols, and hospitals. They were virtually hundreds of miles from anywhere with nothing but 8,000 feet of vertical drop before them. Their guide was a 70-year-old man, small and seemingly fragile. He told them to stay directly behind him and he would get them down safely, but if they veered off to the right or left, chances were they would fall into a crevice or onto the sharp rocks at the bottom of unseen cliffs.
Suddenly my friend realized that his life was in the hands of this old gentleman whom he hardly knew and who certainly didn’t look like a man who could ski long miles through heavy powder to safety. The young man felt his stomach knot up. But suddenly the old man dropped over the edge, and one by one his friends followed. There was no other way down, and he quickly forced his muscles to move him over the edge and onto the path of the guide now moving quickly away from him.
The descent was awesome. His doubts about the guide were dispelled as he followed a path that led him past sheer cliffs he would not have seen until it was too late. As he noticed these death traps out of the corners of his eyes, he clung even more desperately to the path his guide was making some distance in front of him.
His confidence in the old gentleman was complete when he suddenly stopped them from crossing a seemingly wide-open snowfield. It looked like some of the finest powder he had ever seen, but his first impulse to reject his guide’s words was replaced by the realization that his guide had brought him this far in safety and now was no time to stop trusting him. So he followed as they labored through heavy snow to climb up and around the snowfield, finally arriving below it. Stopping, they turned and looked behind them. What they saw made him take a deep breath. The snowfield wasn’t a snowfield at all, but a crevice several hundred feet deep with a snow bridge two or three feet thick. Had they attempted to cross it they would have surely broken through and plummeted to their deaths on the jagged rocks and ice below.
By the time they had reached the bottom, my friend was humbled by the ability of his “fragile” guide. Through years of preparation, the guide had gained a knowledge that went much deeper than the eye could see. His life was dedicated to keeping people like my friend from serious harm. Over the next few days they would ski some of the most beautiful country in the world, dangerous country with disaster hidden in its deep snow. But their guide was ever vigilant in protecting them, and they were able to relax and really enjoy the marvelous, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I had just started my first job, and I loved it. On a particular day, not long after I started, a co-worker and I heard the bell telling us a customer had come in the door. It was a man, about 50 years old, who looked just like anyone else. The man walked about half the distance to our counter from the door before he pulled out a knife. He then walked very quickly to us and demanded money from the till.
Fortunately, he just took the money and ran. Even before he was out the door, I began to call the police. After hours of questions we finally left the police station. I thought about what had just happened as I drove home. I had been scared, but all I could think was, What happened in this man’s life that made him resort to breaking the law and putting innocent lives in danger? I wondered what his life was like.
The strangest part was that I kept wishing I could help this man. I kept asking myself if there was someone who could have helped him, who could have led him to think more about his choices in life. Then I began to think about all the people I knew. I wondered if there might have been someone who needed me, but I had not listened to the Spirit long enough to know it.
As all this was going through my mind, I had an overwhelming feeling. I prayed, first to thank my Heavenly Father for protecting me, but then to ask Him to bless the man who robbed our store. I asked Him to help the man find the happiness I have in my life. I knew Heavenly Father was the only one who knew how to help this man.
At that moment I realized how truly blessed I was to have the gospel. No matter what happens, I know I can turn to my Father in Heaven and He will help me. The gospel was a very special gift I had been taking for granted all my life.
I wanted to find the man who robbed the store and tell him about prayer and about the gospel. I wanted to tell him of the Atonement and of God’s plan for us. But I especially wanted to share my testimony of God’s love for all His children.
Even though this man put my life in danger, he is a precious child in Heavenly Father’s sight. He is one of His lost sheep. I felt then, and even now feel, a love for this man I do not know.

I was a senior in high school the day I ran into Sam Stone,* a boy I hadn’t seen since junior high. I was going to run an errand as I started down the hall of my high school. With the sun coming through the double doors in front of me, I could only make out the silhouette of a boy coming towards me. As we got closer, he spoke, calling me by name, “I remember you. You kicked me in the stomach and were always mean to me.”
Sammy had moved into our small community sometime in the third or fourth grade. He was placed in a foster family and lived there until about the seventh or eighth grade, when he was sent to a new foster family. Sammy had been teased constantly, and I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit that I participated in his ridicule. I don’t remember ever kicking him, but I have a definite memory of being on the merry-go-round when he was trying to get on. We wouldn’t let him and began a cruel chant about him as we pumped the merry-go-round faster and faster. I still remember the look on his face.
Throughout the remainder of my senior year, I tried to be kind to Sam. I made it a point to speak to him whenever I saw him. Then graduation came, and we went our separate ways.
Now I am 33 years old, and I serve as the Primary president in my ward. The theme for sharing time one month was “Friends.” That Sunday we would be having stake visitors, and as I began to prepare for sharing time, I searched for something to involve the children and keep them interested so that we could maintain reverence.
My mind kept going to the memory of Sammy, how I was not a friend to him and how I could have made a difference in the way he was treated and didn’t. I thought about talking to the senior Primary on being a good friend and telling my story as a poor example. I prepared my talk but began to have second thoughts. I did not know if I could keep the interest of the children without a game or something to involve them and did not particularly want to try it for the first time when the stake visitors were there. Then there was the fact that I was ashamed and embarrassed of what I had done when I was the same age as these children and wondered if I should share this story with them.
By Thursday, I had decided not to tell the story and was looking through all my materials for another idea of something to present. By Friday, I had not found anything that felt right to me. I prayed for help and decided that when I went to dinner with my sister that evening, I would find out what she was doing for sharing time in her ward. My sister, who also served in a Primary presidency, is very creative, and I often get ideas from her. That night as we waited for our dinner to arrive, she excitedly told me her plans for sharing time in her ward. The idea was good, but it just didn’t feel right for me. Now I was really concerned. I slowly began to eat my dinner, my thoughts centered on what I could possibly do.
As I was eating, I thought I heard my name being called. It was very faint, and it was my maiden name. I looked around but didn’t see anyone, and no one at my table seemed to have heard it. I figured it was my imagination and went back to my meal and the conversation when I heard my name again, this time louder. This time my dinner companions heard it too. As I looked up, I saw a man step out from behind a divider. The man was Sammy Stone. “I wasn’t sure if that was you,” he said, “so I said your name softly first to make sure it was.”
I was dazed. Standing before me was Sam Stone. I had not seen him since high school some 15 years before, but the past week I had thought about him constantly. And now here he was. We chatted a minute as I introduced him to my husband and my other family members there with me. He invited me to meet his family in another part of the restaurant before we left. I felt strongly that Heavenly Father wanted me to tell this story in sharing time on Sunday.
At the conclusion of our meal, my husband and I went over to meet Sam’s family. Sam had overcome some great odds in his life. I was impressed with him and his family. Sadly for me, Sam introduced me to his family as someone he went to high school with. I would have been elated if he would have introduced me as “a friend from high school,” but at least he had spoken to me.
On Sunday I spoke about Sammy in Primary. The room was packed with the children, the stake visitors, and members of our bishopric. There was no problem with reverence. You could have heard a pin drop during any part of sharing time. I know that Heavenly Father loves each of His children, and I believe He wanted me to share this story to remind them to be kind to everyone. So, to those of you who are reading this story, I ask you the same question I asked that group of children, “What kind of friend will you be remembered as?”