Gospel Story Finder

Cindy swung open the door of the Middleton post office and went inside. “Hi, Mrs. Tyler, remember me?” she asked the tall woman standing behind the counter.
“Why of course, Cindy. My, how you’ve grown!”
“No more standing on my toes to buy stamps.”
“No, indeed.” Mrs. Tyler opened a half-door in the counter. “Come in so I can give you a big hug. How’ve you been? Do you like your new home?”
“It’s not new any longer,” said Cindy. “I’ve been living in Rockville for three years now. I love it.” She stepped behind the counter. “It seems so long ago when Dad was transferred and we had to move away from Middleton. I thought I’d never be happy again.”
“I remember that. When you came here to say good-bye to me, I never saw a more somber-looking child. By the way, there’s the African violet you gave me that day.”
“You still have it?”
“Of course. After all, you gave it to me so that I wouldn’t forget you.”
“I know, but it was such a puny thing. I’m surprised it lasted this long.”
Mrs. Tyler picked up the plant. “Can you believe all these violets are blooming? Every year it gets bigger and better.”
“Then I guess my leaving was just the thing it needed,” Cindy joked.
“Now, now—you remember how sad we all were to see you go.”
Cindy remembered the good-bye party her parents had had. She’d invited all her school friends and Mrs. Tyler and Mr. Nealy. That reminded her. … “Mrs. Tyler, I went by the train station to see Mr. Nealy, but it was closed.”
“Oh, they changed the hours again. But you wouldn’t have seen Mr. Nealy, anyway. He retired as stationmaster the year after you left. You and he were good friends, weren’t you?”
“I saw him every school day when I was in third grade.”
“Why was that?—I don’t remember.”
“The train station was where the school bus stopped. Mom couldn’t get back from taking care of Grandma until four-thirty, so I spent about an hour waiting at the station until she came. Have you seen him lately?”
“Yes, and you need to know that he’s very sick. He has Alzheimer’s disease. Do you know what that is?”
Cindy nodded slowly. She thought of Mrs. Clark, her friend Linda’s grandmother. Cindy’d seen Mrs. Clark once. She was hunched over in a rocking chair, staring at the wall. She didn’t answer Linda’s questions but just sat there, constantly rubbing the chair arms with her hands. Linda had said that her grandmother seemed happiest when she sat in the rocker. It bothered Cindy; she never visited Mrs. Clark again.
“I’m sure Mrs. Nealy wouldn’t mind your seeing him,” said Mrs. Tyler. “I have their number. You can call from here.”
“That’s OK. I think I shouldn’t bother them.”
“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Tyler busied herself with some packages.
She sees all right, Cindy thought. She sees what a chicken I am. I don’t care—I can’t bear to see Mr. Nealy be like Linda’s grandmother.
As she watched Mrs. Tyler place stamps on the packages, Cindy thought about the first time she saw Mr. Nealy. She’d been too shy to talk to him, and the time had really dragged while she waited for her mother. But after Mr. Nealy made friends with her, that hour flew by. Later she realized that Mr. Nealy enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. Between three and four o’clock was a slow period when there were few travelers. She helped him sweep the floor, wash the windows, check for burned out light bulbs. He talked about trains, and she talked about school.
He was fond of black licorice and often asked her to go to the nearby store and buy him a package of it. She remembered how he always said, “Black licorice, Cindy. Not red. And not the shoestring kind, either.” And he always gave her extra money to buy candy for herself.
As the memories flooded her mind, Cindy saw him standing very tall, with beautiful silver hair and a thick mustache. He was strong, picking up cargo as if the crates were empty. That Christmas she gave him a conch shell that she’d found in Florida while on vacation, and he gave her a pin in the shape of a caboose. She still had the pin.
Thinking of that shell made Cindy smile. Mr. Nealy kept it at his office, where it lay among the forms and tickets and stamps. It looked out of place, but he never moved it, except to put it to his ear sometimes and listen to the sound of the sea. “That’s where I should be right now,” he’d say, “lying on a beach, loafing my life away.” Then they would laugh.
To see him like Linda’s grandmother—Cindy shuddered at the thought. Turning now to go, she said, “It was nice seeing you again, Mrs. Tyler.”
“You, too, dear.” Mrs. Tyler gave Cindy a good-bye hug. “Come back to visit.”
“I will.”
As Cindy passed the train station once more, she tried to not think of Mr. Nealy. But the thoughts kept coming.
The store had not changed. Cindy quickly found the black licorice at the candy counter. Maybe he won’t be as sick as Linda’s grandmother, she thought. Maybe he just started getting that way. And I don’t have to stay long. She fumbled with the licorice, trying to make up her mind. Should I go? She saw a pay phone on the wall. Should I call?
Fifteen minutes later she pushed the doorbell of the Nealy house. Patting the package of licorice in her jacket pocket, she felt good about her decision.
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Cindy,” Mrs. Nealy greeted her. “Henry will love seeing you again.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Of course not. As I told you when you phoned, we love to have company. Come in.”
Cindy felt a little strange. She’d never pictured Mr. Nealy having a regular house. The station had seemed like his home—he’d cared for it and cleaned it as if he lived there day and night.
“Mr. Nealy doesn’t get many visitors anymore. At first he might look strange to you, but it will pass after a little while. He’s in the living room.”
Cindy followed Mrs. Nealy toward the sound of a TV. She could see the back of Mr. Nealy’s head as they entered the room. He was sitting in a swivel chair in front of the television.
Mrs. Nealy bent over the chair. “Henry, look who’s come to see you. It’s Cindy.”
Cindy watched the chair swivel toward her. Mr. Nealy was hunched over, his eyes showing no recognition. He pushed the chair around and around, and each time he passed her, his eyes remained blank.
“Sit here, Cindy.” Mrs. Nealy pointed to the sofa. She asked Cindy questions about her new hometown, her school, and her new friends. After most of Cindy’s answers, Mrs. Nealy said, “Isn’t that nice, Henry?” or “Did you hear that, Henry?”
As she watched the retired stationmaster circle that green chair round and round, Cindy thought that it was hopeless to even pretend that he knew what they were saying. Seeing him was worse than seeing Linda’s grandmother, because Cindy could not forget how he used to be. As she talked to Mrs. Nealy, memories of his deep laughter, his wide smile, his stories and silly jokes swirled within her until she could no longer bear the sight and sound of his chair. “I have to go, Mrs. Nealy. It’s getting late.”
She pulled the licorice from her jacket. “Would you give these to Mr. Nealy. He used to like black licorice.”
“He still does. He’ll be pleased.”
“Mrs. Nealy, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“In his way, he knows. Please—you give him the candy.” She got up, and Cindy followed her to the swivel chair. “Henry, Cindy has a present for you.” She stopped the chair.
“Mr. Nealy, these are for you.” Cindy waved the candy in front of him, trying to catch his attention.
When he saw the licorice, he grabbed at it. Close to him now, Cindy saw that he wasn’t so different, after all. He still had the lovely silver hair and thick mustache, his eyes were still deep blue, and he still wore his railroad ring.
“Cin, Cin,” he uttered, staring at her.
“Yes, Mr. Nealy. It’s me, Cindy.”
He raised a hand, and Cindy stooped to let him touch her face. He smiled, then pointed to a table. Cindy could not understand his words, but she recognized the conch shell.
“You still have this?”
Cindy picked it up and took it to him. But when she tried to place it in his hands, he pushed the shell back to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Nealy. It will remind me of you.”
He smiled, and Cindy decided that somehow he understood. Then he ripped open the licorice and started his chair whirling again, and she knew that he was back in his own world. She turned to Mrs. Nealy. “It hurts to see him this way—is he in pain?”
“No, Cindy. He isn’t in pain.”
“He isn’t, but we are.” Cindy put the shell to her ear and listened to the sound of the sea. She looked up again at Mrs. Nealy and managed a brave smile. “I’m glad that at least we have some happy memories.”

Having been raised in an active Latter-day Saint family, I think I grew up having a testimony. I never seriously doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. Like many teenagers, I occasionally questioned things in my mind, but I never felt that the Church wasn’t true.
It was this faith that inspired me to serve a mission. I knew I needed to serve. But even though I had no serious doubts about the Church, I realized I had to gain a testimony of my own.
I began my mission in February 1961, leaving Salt Lake City’s winter for the heat of an Argentine summer. There was no language training for missionaries at the time, but my mission president promised us we would speak fluent Spanish after reading the entire Book of Mormon out loud. I had learned Spanish as a child and was speaking fluently within the first few weeks, but still I followed my mission president’s instructions.
In the first town I was assigned to, my companion and I stayed in the living quarters behind an old store. We couldn’t proselytize in the afternoon during the Argentine siesta, so I used that time to pray and read the Book of Mormon in the front entrance of the old store.
One day, thousands of miles from home in the front of that store, I stopped to think about what I was reading. When you pray and ponder about the Book of Mormon, the Spirit can influence you. I pondered what the Book of Mormon was teaching, I thought about Joseph Smith translating the plates, and I had a sudden feeling come over me. At that moment I knew that everything I had been taught all my life was true. It suddenly became very clear to me that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that I was reading the word of God. It was all true.
That sudden feeling was electrifying. It went through my whole body from my head to my toes. It wasn’t a chill, and it wasn’t a burning. But it was a sure witness.
I’ve never forgotten that day, and I’ve felt the Holy Ghost many times since. Because of that experience, I recognize the Holy Ghost when He is testifying to me. That feeling isn’t always exactly the same, but it’s always warm and secure.

In the first of what will be an annual event, the youth of the Bristol England Stake held a super raft race on a marine lake.
The group gathered at Weston-Super-Mare on a sunny but brisk day in June. The rules were simple. Each group had to make their own raft and using manpower take it across the lake and back. But it was easier said than done. The eight rafts gave the word unstable a new meaning. But through team effort the Weston Ward won.
After everyone dried off, the group held a barbecue and dance to complete the activity. Although the water was cold and the wind brisk, the glow of good fellowship added a special warmth to the day.

The closest temple for the saints in Brazzaville is currently in Kinshasa, in the DRC. Getting there has not always been easy.
“We organized massive trips to the temple in Kinshasa, which meant we had to brave the challenge of crossing the turbulent river with our families,” said President Gayouele. “It was also during a time when our country was going through a severe recession. Families were destitute, but for these trips, members made enormous sacrifices to pay for the tickets for crossing the river, meals, and accommodation. There were so many of us leaving for the temple that very often there was no more room for us in the Kinshasa temple. Some brothers and sisters had to stay outside the temple and wait for their turn. These trips were sometimes trials of faith and determination for temple ordinances. Eventually, these trips have enabled us to bring the spirit of the temple into the hearts of Church members.”

I carried a tray of food, prepared by my mother-in-law, into a cluttered and dusty home. The sole occupant sat where she always sat, on a big armchair positioned so she could see out the window. Her swollen legs were stretched in front of her and her cane, which she used only with great effort, leaned against her arm. She smiled when she saw me, thanked me for the food, and apologetically asked who I was. As I sat next to her and listened to her stories, I was filled with warmth and peace.
Three years later, I was on the floor with my two young children, bouncing them on my legs and singing a racehorse tune. Only a few feet away, my kitchen was in disarray and toys were scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt a reassurance from the Spirit that I was right where I needed to be. Warmth and peace flooded my soul, filling its worn edges and giving energy where there was none.
Another two years forward, I was lying on the bed. A pile of laundry was visible on the floor, and a stack of papers littered the desk to my left as I fed my newborn son for the fourth time that night. I brushed my fingertips against his long lashes, felt his soft bald head, and was thrilled when fingers curled around the lace of my shirt. I was so filled with warmth and peace that I didn’t even mind that I was sometimes awake at three in the morning.
In each of these cases, the Holy Ghost was with me, telling me I was in the right place and doing the right thing, and in each of these cases, I was in a messy home.

A message in the ward WhatsApp group informed members that brother Laveti’s daughter was admitted into the intensive care unit of a hospital. A few minutes later, I received a call asking me to visit the family immediately.
I left for the hospital. I saw the little girl lying down on a bed surrounded by doctors. The doctors struggled to diagnose her as they could not find the reason for her sickness. I prayed all along for the little girl. I felt inspired to give her a blessing. So I went into the ICU, where only doctors, nurses, and patients’ attenders are allowed. But trusting in God, I went inside. The security at the gate did not stop me nor did he ask me any questions. Brother Laveti was surprised to see me inside the ICU. We decided to give his daughter a priesthood blessing. Brother Laveti anointed and I acted as the mouthpiece to bless the child who was struggling with much pain, agony, restlessness, and even had a hard time breathing. With faith and as the Spirit prompted, I blessed her and soon after the blessing I had a very special and strong feeling that a “great miracle” would take place. I shared the same feeling with Brother Laveti. Soon after the blessing was pronounced on her, the doctors were able to find out the real cause for her sickness and started giving her the right treatment.
This was the “real miracle,” and it happened with the holy and sacred power of the priesthood that we brethren hold. The whole family was greatly comforted.

Peace and forgiveness. Early in 2005 my husband gave two men a ride. When my husband returned home, he discovered that his sapelu (machete) was missing. This really hurt him: he’d done a good deed, and this was how he was repaid. The incident bothered my husband to the point that he was having trouble finding peace.Several months later, we awoke to find that our house had been broken into. Worse, we realized the intruders had come into the rooms where our children and we had been sleeping. I was angry and thought, “If my husband was so upset about a knife, he will go completely nuts now!” But he had a spirit of peace that spilled over to the rest of us. He expressed gratitude that nobody had been hurt and hope that the people who had taken our things would use them to improve their lives.I was speechless at the change. Why was I not able to feel the same peace? Then I realized: while I had been “too busy” to start reading, my husband was firmly entrenched in the Book of Mormon. Kathleen Arp, Pesega, Samoa

One mother reinforced these points in a family home evening lesson. She began by showing a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and one of a gambling casino. The family discussed how architects strive to harmonize form and function as they design buildings. They noticed how the towering spires of the Salt Lake Temple lead the eye upward toward the heavens, inviting reverence and awe. “I explained that the temple’s outer dignity and grandeur accurately reflect the sacred purpose of the building—to lead us toward God,” the mother says.

Then the family discussed how the casino’s exterior reflects the purpose of that building. “We could see how the gaudiness of that building indicates excess. It beckons people to seek worldly pleasures,” this mother continues. The family talked about how building materials, colors, and design all contribute to the overall purpose of a building.

“When I held up pictures of a person in modest clothing and one in immodest clothing, our children immediately made the connection that clothing can reflect the purpose of a person,” she explains. The family could see that immodest clothing draws attention to the body of the person wearing it. They could also see that modest clothing allows the spirit of the person wearing it to radiate. “We ended by discussing how the way we dress can either contribute to or detract from our divine purpose as children of God,” she concludes. “I challenged our family to make sure that the way we dress accurately reflects who we really are and what we are about.”

Service has been a part of gospel teachings from the very beginning. From Adam to the present, we have been encouraged to serve our fellowmen. I had the privilege of witnessing a real fulfillment of Paul’s counsel to the Galatians when he instructed them, “by love serve one another.”
When our family was living in Massachusetts, we had our home in the little country town of Weston, about 13 miles west of Boston. It was a very quaint, sophisticated community with a population then of about 11,000 people. Weston had many picturesque, winding country roads lined with hand-fashioned rock walls. The small business section was completely deserted by 9:00 P.M. each evening. Yet for all its quaintness, Weston had its problems, especially with many of the high school and junior high students who used drugs and brought liquor into the dry town.
However, I would like to tell you about one Weston High School student who was too busily engaged in other pursuits to become involved with drugs or alcohol. This young man spent a lot of time on the ski slopes. Being an avid skier in New England is not unusual, but what this boy did with his talent is unusual. He was an expert skier and loved the sport. In fact, he was an instructor and spent even his spare time teaching others to ski. You could regularly see him coming down the mountainside very close to one of his pupils, who was oftentimes years older than he. They would start slowly but gather speed as they made graceful turns down the slope, all the time carrying on a conversation, laughing, enjoying the invigorating air and the sparkling sunshine. Observers would take note and follow the pair with their eyes until they reached the bottom, regarding them as just two more skiers having a great time.
What the onlookers did not realize was that one of the skiers was blind. This young Weston High School student was teaching the blind to ski. He did it free of charge. When he first had the idea, he discussed it with others and was advised by all to forget it. He was told over and over that it would simply be impossible.
But this young man had witnessed the hopelessness of some of the blind people and wanted to share with them one of the pleasures of his life. He wanted them to have a feeling of accomplishment and success. He wished to give them a new dimension to their lives. He wanted them to feel that they were real, whole individuals. He really cared. He cared enough to devote the time necessary to develop a rapport of love, encouragement, and understanding with these people to help them build faith in themselves and in their own abilities. Gradually mutual friendships blossomed.
These blind people placed their trust in this young man. He was their friend. He was the only one they would permit to put on their boots and snap them into their bindings. In their training, he said that helping them develop an attitude of trust and faith in themselves was the important thing. After that, the technique would come easily.
The last I heard, he had been successful in teaching 13 blind people to ski and was in the process of teaching more. He had even been requested to write a manual on teaching the blind to ski. He possessed then, and I am sure he still does, the confidence which comes with success. But more importantly, he has developed lasting friendships and has learned how to love and share through worthwhile service.
It is an eternal truth that the greatest satisfaction we find in this life is not that which is done for self but that which is given for the benefit of another. As this young man from Weston found fulfillment in his service to the blind, so each of us can find the rewarding satisfaction which comes when we “by love serve one another.”

Their collaboration came about after Abby started writing music again, following the birth of their fifth child, when she heard about Sam’s professional musical experience from a fellow member in his ward. Sam helped Abby record the songs she had written and they worked together on other compositions, even from opposite ends of the United Kingdom. They have since released a full CD of original Christmas songs, which has also been printed as sheet music for others to use.

When I was at my friend’s house, she asked me if I wanted some coffee. I wanted some because some of my other friends said that it was good. I thought for a minute and asked myself if Jesus would do it. Suddenly I felt the Holy Ghost comforting me. I told my friend, “No, thank you.” She said, “Are you sure? It’s really good.” Again, I said, “No, thank you.” I was grateful that the Holy Ghost was there to comfort me. I was also grateful that I could tell my friend no.

Grandpa had a great desire to serve, and no matter what the job, he was dedicated to it. He served as stake clerk for many years. When age made the shaking of his hand so severe that it became difficult to write, the stake president asked him if he would like to be released. Without hesitation and with a smile, Grandpa replied, “You know, President, it’s not writing I have a problem with. It’s fishing. Whenever I go fishing my hand gets to shaking so badly that I can’t tell if I’ve got a fish on the line or if it’s just me.” Grandpa continued to serve as stake clerk almost until his death.

One young mother and father sat at their kitchen table reviewing their day. From down the hall, they heard a thud. The mother asked, “What was that?”

Then they heard a soft cry coming from their four-year-old son’s bedroom. They rushed down the hall. There he was, lying on the floor next to his bed. The mother picked up the little boy and asked him what had happened.

He said, “I fell out of bed.”

She said, “Why did you fall out of bed?”

He shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t get far enough in.”

Colonel Thomas Kane, a special representative of James Polk, president of the United States, visited the Latter-day Saint pioneers in 1846 while they camped in Iowa, preparing to cross the Missouri River. He had read newspaper articles about the Saints, describing how they had frequently been persecuted and driven from their homes. As he walked through the woods near the outskirts of the camp, he came upon a lone pioneer who was secretly praying. Thomas stood quietly listening to the man humbly express thanks for the restored gospel and petition for the Saints’ protection during their travels.
Thomas was very moved by this experience, and he became a lifelong friend of the Saints, although he never joined the Church.

Before getting into bed, Karen and Katie knelt to pray. Karen soon finished and jumped back into bed. Katie was still praying.
Karen fluffed her pillow a few times and curled up under her nice warm quilt. Katie was still praying.
Karen closed her eyes. After a while, she opened her eyes again. Katie was still praying.
Karen adjusted her quilt again and snuggled in. Katie finally finished her prayer.
“What could you possibly be praying about for that long?” Karen asked.
“Well, I was thanking Heavenly Father for all He gave me today.”
Karen sat up. “Really? He gave you that much today?”
“Oh yes!”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Katie said, “when I woke up this morning, I opened the curtains, and the sun warmed my face. I was thankful for sunshine. I got dressed and rushed downstairs for breakfast. When we all knelt for family prayer, I thought, I’m so thankful to have a wonderful family!
“After breakfast, I went for a bike ride. I heard birds singing. I saw flowers of all colors and shapes. I saw the big shady trees up and down our street. I could smell the fresh air. I thought, I’m so thankful for this wonderful world!
“Then I saw my Primary teacher, Sister Smith, in her front yard. She waved and said hello. I felt blessed to have a nice Primary teacher who loves me and teaches me.
“When I got home, Brady was there to wag her tail while I petted her. I was thankful for Brady.
“Tonight at family home evening, Mom and Dad taught us more about Jesus Christ. I’m thankful for them. I’m most thankful for Jesus and all He’s done for me.”
“Wow!” Karen exclaimed. “I never realized how much there is to be thankful for.”
“There’s more,” Katie said. “When Mom reminded us to say our prayers, I was thankful for prayer itself. Not only can I talk to Heavenly Father any time and thank Him for all He’s given me, but I can ask for help with my problems.”
With that, Katie turned off the lamp and snuggled down in her bed.
Suddenly Karen turned the lamp back on.
“What’s wrong?” Katie asked.
“Nothing. I just need to say another prayer. I have a lot to thank Heavenly Father for, too.”
Katie closed her eyes tight and turned toward the wall. She had a feeling that Karen would be praying a long time.

That adult programmer began emerging at an early age. According to his mother, Marian, Doug learned how to use a screwdriver at two and started taking apart anything he could get his hands on. “Including an attempt at his dad’s car,” Marian said. “The problem was he couldn’t always put the things he took apart back together.”
By five Doug put down the screwdriver in favor of the Johnson’s home computer. His father, Lynn, also a computer programmer, showed him how to get going, but Doug needed little direction. Over the years Lynn kept his eye on his son and began to show him how he could use his interest and talent. Doug’s first job in programming was with his dad. When he was 12, Doug wrote a complex system for a major law firm while his dad installed the computer hardware.
At 14 Doug was writing his own software and had formed his own computer company, Maximum Output Software, to market and sell his products. At an age when most young people are only thinking about getting a part-time job, Doug was writing his own software and doing programming work for engineering and shipping/receiving firms.
One of his clients, Angelo Mourino, the owner of a Houston air freight company, said he hired three other professional, adult programmers before Doug. None of them could do the job he needed. Word had surfaced about this 14-year-old whiz kid. Angelo said he was skeptical, but ready to try anything.
“One guy I had hired before Doug had taken six months just to figure out he couldn’t do the job,” Angelo said. “Doug finished the project in about two or three weeks.” While going to high school!
At 17 Doug has a long list of credits behind him which include captaining his high school computer team to top awards in state competitions, serving as the president of a prominent Houston computer club (Doug is also the youngest of the 100-plus members), maintaining a 4.0 GPA in his schoolwork. The list goes on.
But, as Doug is quick to point out, there’s more to him than computers and an aptitude at schoolwork. He’s just a normal LDS kid and with normal outside interests. He’s working on his Eagle Scout Award. He likes music and works occasionally as a deejay at stake dances in Houston and, with a friend, writes funny rap songs about the Church. He has attended early-morning seminary for three years and will graduate this spring.
And he has some normal 17-year-old challenges. He’s shy and has trouble meeting people; he’s shorter than average and isn’t too good in sports; and, believe it or not, he’s a procrastinator.
But he faces those challenges, and others, like he faces the computer—by again keeping his goals in mind and doing what he knows is right. When friends invite him to drinking parties, he turns the invitations down and explains why he doesn’t want to go. When he is asked tough questions about his religion, Doug answers with faith and a solid understanding of the scriptures he has gained through church and seminary study. If people try to get him to use his computer knowledge for illegal gain, he refuses without hesitation.
He thanks his family and the Church for keeping him on the right path.
“The gospel has kept me away from drugs and alcohol, but it has also given me a direction. When I leave home I know how I should live, how I should raise a family. The computer can’t be everything. I’d like to be successful at it, but I won’t ever do anything illegal.”
Brent Rawson, Doug’s bishop in the Champion’s Ward of the Cypress Texas Stake, said he recently called Doug as the ward computer specialist and had him devise a computer program that would allow the bishopric to keep track of members, ward callings (and how long each person has been serving), home and visiting teaching, who spoke in sacrament meeting (and when), and so on. Bishop Rawson can now review, within seconds, any detail of his ward’s business.
“He has been a big help to me,” Bishop Rawson said. “A calling like this needs great maturity and he has that, along with lots of leadership ability. From a bishop’s point of view he is a very spiritual young man with a lot of potential.”
Also, Doug’s computer skills have helped him in other aspects of his Church development. Half of all his earnings go into savings for his mission and for four years at Brigham Young University, where he plans to further his computer programming studies. Plus, Doug hopes that his computer company will one day be productive enough to allow him to support a family.
The clicking has stopped. Whatever Doug was working on is finished. He shows you what he’s created, but his manner is matter-of-fact. After all, as Doug will tell you, it doesn’t take a genius to do this. The computer does what it’s told. Doug tries to do the same—live the principles he’s been taught, do what his parents and church leaders advise.
As Doug Johnson will tell you—life, and computers, can be simple if you have the right attitude.

At church, I was called as a ward clerk and later as a counselor in the bishopric. I couldn’t believe that someone in a wheelchair could serve. My accident had made me feel useless, but working in the Church made me feel useful and helped me realize I could contribute. I love the opportunity to grow closer to Jesus Christ as I serve.
As a counselor in the bishopric, I wanted to be guided so I could be better at my calling. That made me want to prepare more for each Sunday. I got into the habit of reading my scriptures, and I had opportunities to bear my testimony. Being a leader at church even helped me become a leader at work. I built up the feeling that I could lead and speak up, allowing me to lead in other areas.
“Working in the Church made me feel useful and realize that I could contribute,” says Posenai. “I love the opportunity to grow closer to Jesus Christ as I serve.”

Perhaps the greatest way my mission prepared me for military service was what it taught me about the power of example. While serving with the 101st Airborne Division, I have come to realize how powerful a good example can be to those with whom I serve. People say they never hear me use profanity or see me drink alcohol or view pornography. A lot of the guys in my unit have asked me why I won’t participate in those activities and have questioned me about the Church and what it teaches. I always explain my values, telling them my religion teaches me that certain things are bad for me and to abstain from them. Knowing that others are noticing my actions helps me strive to be a good example of what a Latter-day Saint should be.

“Art time!” Miss Shirley said.
Brynn was excited. Art time was her favorite! They drew something new each class. Maybe today they would draw a slimy frog. Or a tall mountain. Or a pretty flower.
Brynn loved to draw!
“Art time will be special today,” Miss Shirley said. “We won’t all draw the same thing. You’ll each get to pick.”
Brynn smiled big. Maybe she could draw lots of different things!
“But there is one rule,” said Miss Shirley. “I want you to draw something you’re thankful for.”
What should I draw? Brynn thought. She reached into her backpack for her crayons. She was thankful for so many things! She was thankful for animals. And Mom and Dad. And the big, blue sky.
Then Brynn remembered something. It was something she learned in home evening last week. Mom said Jesus created the whole world. He made the oceans and mountains and flowers. He even made all the animals!
Then Brynn knew what she was thankful for most of all. She started drawing.
When they were done, everyone shared their drawings. There was an ice-cream cone. A family. A pair of skates.
Then it was Brynn’s turn. She walked to the front. She held her drawing up high.
“I’m thankful for Jesus,” she said.
Brynn had a warm feeling in her heart. It felt good to be thankful.

As a skinny 12-year-old, I watched through a chain-link fence as my two older brothers earned all-state baseball honors.
Life was exciting because they were my brothers. The guy wearing number eight and striking out three batters in a row, and the player hitting home runs over the centerfielder’s head were the same guys I shared a basement bedroom with. They were the ones who first taught me about putting gel in my hair and how to start a campfire. We were good friends.
The feelings of inadequacy kicked in because as a five-foot-three, 98-pound weakling, I could not understand how I would ever be able to fire an 80-mile-per-hour fastball or hit towering home runs.
On one hot summer afternoon, my oldest brother could see something was bothering me. After he encouraged me to tell him what was on my mind, I said in muffled tones, “How will I ever become a great baseball player like you?”
“Matt,” he said in his usual cheerful voice, “you’ve just got to do the things that great baseball players do.” After thinking about this, I came to realize that great baseball players aren’t only naturally talented, but they make themselves skilled through hours of practice. I committed myself to do all I could.
Three broken noses and six years later, I was a starter on the varsity baseball team and had just signed a national letter of intent to play college baseball.