Gospel Story Finder

The twenty-third of December is an important birth date to remember, for it was on that day in 1805 that the Prophet Joseph Smith was born.
The Prophet loved children and they loved him. He would often go out of his way to speak to a child. One boy recalled that when families drove from their farms into Kirtland to attend church meetings, the Prophet would go from wagon to wagon, seeking out the children to whom he gave special greetings.
They called the Prophet “Brother Joseph,” and he always had a smile for them. Once a group of children were playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks. As the children rose from their knees, one of them said, “Now I know Brother Joseph will be safe.”
Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night. He told them that they could go to their own homes, for he knew that prayers of children are heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!
Here is what some of the children who knew and loved Brother Joseph wrote about him:
The Prophet Joseph Smith was our neighbor. We lived next to him on the corner of Main and Parley streets. He came to our house quite often for short visits.
One day my older brother, Wallace, and I were on our way to school. It had been raining the previous day and the ground was very muddy, especially along the street on which the building known as Joseph’s brick store was. Wallace and I both got stuck fast in the mud and could not get out. And, childlike, we began to cry. Looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming toward us. He soon had us on higher and drier ground. Then he stooped down and cleaned the mud from our little heavy-laden shoes, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped our tearstained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us and sent us on our way to school rejoicing. You can see why Wallace and I loved him.
Years later my husband told me that when he was a child, Brother Joseph went to their home and asked if he could borrow one of his mother’s twin babies. He explained that his wife Emma had been sad and lonely since her own baby had died, and he thought it would comfort her take care of one of the girls. The Prophet picked up the baby in the morning and brought her back each night.
One evening when the baby was not home at the usual time, Mother Burgess went to see what was the matter. There was the Prophet rocking the little baby by the fire. He had her wrapped in a silk quilt, and he was singing to get her quiet.

I was 13 years old when I first saw the full-time missionaries. I was living apart from my family at the time, going to school in another town in the Philippines. One day while riding the bus, I saw two nicely dressed young men sitting near me. I didn’t know who they were, but I was impressed with what I assumed were their uniforms. For some reason, I wanted to wear one, too.

My father’s dying words impressed me so deeply that I did wear the “uniform” of a full-time missionary. I served in the Philippines Quezon City Mission.

I would like to share just one quick story that I think might point out to you the importance of what I am trying to say. A student that was going to this University came to my home a few weeks ago with a lovely girl. He had given her a ring and they were to be married in June. They were in my home to ask me what I thought about it. My missionaries often bring their girlfriends for me to interview to be sure they are all right. This girl was certainly all right as far as I was concerned. We set the date. This was on a Friday night. Saturday evening, about nine o’clock at night, I received a telephone call. The dialogue went something like this:

“President Ballard?”
“Yes?”
“This is Brother So-and-so of the bishopric. I have some terrible news.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“One of your missionaries has been killed.”
“Oh, no! Who?”
Then he told me that the young man who had been in my home less than twenty-four hours earlier was gone. And so, rather than standing in the temple in a sealing room to seal that lovely girl to that worthy, faithful young man, three days later I, as his mission president, was preaching his funeral sermon. I do not suppose that I shall ever have a more difficult assignment than that, with that lovely girl and the parents and family sitting on the front row. The chapel was filled as if it were stake conference, and all were sitting there with the same question in their mind: “Why? Why did this happen?” I was impressed to say this, which I will say to you:

“Do not worry about my missionary; he is all right. He, as far as I know, was worthy in every way because he had lived up to all of the commitments, challenges, and blessings that he had taken upon himself in the temple and through the waters of baptism. Do not worry about him; let us worry that we, from this day forward, are preparing ourselves to be as ready when our time comes as he was.”

In her book My Grandfather’s Blessings, Dr. Rachel Remen tells of becoming good friends with a couple and their young son, Kenny. When she visited, she would sit on the floor with Kenny and play with his two Hot Wheels cars. Sometimes she would have the one without a fender and he had the one with a door missing and sometimes vice versa. He loved those cars!

When a gas station chain offered a Hot Wheels car with every fill-up, she recruited the staff at her clinic to go to that particular station and collect the cars. As soon as she had all of the models, she wrapped them in a big box to take to Kenny. She hoped she wouldn’t offend his parents, who lived quite meagerly. Kenny excitedly opened the big box and took out the cars one by one. They filled the windowsills and even extended to the floor. What a collection! Later, while visiting the family, Rachel noticed Kenny just staring out the window. When she asked Kenny, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your new cars?” he looked down very sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I just don’t know how to love so many Hot Wheels.” (See “Owning” [2000], 60–61.)

In the early 1930s, Margaret Kisilevich and her sister Nellie gave a Christmas gift to their neighbors, the Kozicki family, which was remembered by them all their lives and which has become an inspiration to their families.
Home to Margaret back then was Two Hills, Alberta, Canada—a farming community populated largely by Ukrainian and Polish immigrants who generally had large families and were very poor. It was the time of the Great Depression.
Margaret’s family consisted of her mother and father and their 15 children. Margaret’s mother was industrious and her father was enterprising—and with all those children, they had a built-in labor force. Consequently, their home was always warm, and despite their humble circumstances, they were never hungry. In the summer they grew an enormous garden, made sauerkraut, cottage cheese, sour cream, and dill pickles for barter. They also raised chickens, pigs, and beef cattle. They had very little cash, but these goods could be exchanged for other commodities they could not produce themselves.
Margaret’s mother had friends with whom she had emigrated from the old country. These friends owned a general store, and the store became a depot for folks in the area to donate or trade surplus hand-me-down clothing, shoes, etc. Many of these used items were passed along to Margaret’s family.
Alberta winters were cold, long, and hard, and one particularly cold and difficult winter, Margaret and her sister Nellie noticed the poverty of their neighbors, the Kozicki family, whose farm was a few miles away. When the Kozicki father would take his children to school on his homemade sleigh, he would always go into the school to warm himself by the potbelly stove before returning home. The family’s footwear consisted of rags and gunny sacks cut into strips and wrapped about the legs and feet, stuffed with straw, and bound with twine.
Margaret and Nellie decided to invite the Kozicki family, by way of the children, for Christmas dinner. They also decided not to tell anyone in their family of the invitation.
Christmas morning dawned, and everyone in Margaret’s family was busy with the preparations for the midday feast. The huge pork roast had been put in the oven the night before. The cabbage rolls, doughnuts, prune buns, and special burnt sugar punch had been prepared earlier. The menu would be rounded out with sauerkraut, dill pickles, and vegetables. Margaret and Nellie were in charge of getting the fresh vegetables ready, and their mother kept asking them why they were peeling so many potatoes, carrots, and beets. But they just kept peeling.
Their father was the first to notice a team of horses and a sleigh packed with 13 people coming down their lane. He, being a horse lover, could recognize a team from a long distance. He asked his wife, “Why are the Kozickis coming here?” Her response to him was, “I don’t know.”
They arrived, and Margaret’s father helped Mr. Kozicki stable the horses. Mrs. Kozicki embraced Margaret’s mother and thanked her for inviting them for Christmas. Then they all piled into the house, and the festivities began.
The adults ate first, and then the plates and cutlery were washed, and the children ate in shifts. It was a glorious feast, made better by the sharing of it. After everyone had eaten, they sang Christmas carols together, and then the adults settled down for another chat.
Margaret and Nellie took the children into the bedroom and pulled from under the beds several boxes filled with hand-me-downs they had been given by their mother’s merchant friends. It was heavenly chaos, with an instant fashion show and everyone picking whatever clothes and footwear they wanted. They made such a racket that Margaret’s father came in to see what all the noise was about. When he saw their happiness and the joy of the Kozicki children with their “new” clothes, he smiled and said, “Carry on.”
Early in the afternoon, before it got too cold and dark with the setting sun, Margaret’s family bid farewell to their friends, who left well fed, well clothed, and well shod.
Margaret and Nellie never told anyone about their invitation to the Kozickis, and the secret remained until Margaret Kisilevich Wright’s 77th Christmas, in 1998, when she shared it with her family for the first time. She said it was her very best Christmas ever.

In my life I have had opportunity to forgive and also to ask for forgiveness. What I have learned is when we are in a state of exacting justice, we cannot be glad.

Many years ago an injustice occurred in my life. After time and counseling with my bishop as well as professional counselors, I made the decision that I must let this be set aside and I must continue with my life. Many years later, forgiveness came in an unexpected way. As I reflect on it now, it is nice to know that I didn’t spend years feeling hateful and angry. Instead, I was able to accomplish good things without constantly reflecting on the injustice.

One day when Sasha was 14, she saw a handbill from a Protestant church inviting people who wanted to know about God to attend a meeting. Sasha thought, “Oh, they wanted to know about God!” Figuring this would be a perfect opportunity to share the gospel with earnest seekers of the truth, she went to the meeting—all alone. During the service, she courageously stood before the room full of people and bore her testimony of the Savior and the Restoration. “I told them that I know with all my heart it is true,” she says, “and I invited them all to church.” Since that day in 1992, Sasha has helped bring several friends into the Church.

When my parents first told us that we would be moving from Utah to Georgia, I was very nervous. I didn’t want to leave my home, my extended family, or my friends. We knelt down as a family and asked Heavenly Father to bless us with comfort during our move and to help us find friends. I felt the Spirit, and I knew everything would be OK.
Moving across the country took four long days! We drove from Utah through Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, and finally into Georgia. Georgia is completely different from Utah. Utah has beautiful mountains and deserts, cold winters and hot, dry summers. Georgia is very green with tall trees and plants that cover everything. Birds sing in the forest, and frogs croak in the creek behind our new house. My two homes couldn’t be more different. But do you know what is not different? The gospel!
The day after we moved in, we went to our new ward. It was fast Sunday. I was feeling a little shy when we walked into sacrament meeting for the very first time. But everyone was so nice and made us feel so welcome, just like my ward back in Utah. They bore testimonies of Heavenly Father and Jesus and the Book of Mormon. I even got up and bore my testimony that Heavenly Father helps us through our trials. I know He blessed me to find peace in our new home. Before too long I felt like I had always been a part of our new ward. I made many new friends.
I still miss my friends in Utah, but I love my new home in Georgia. I am thankful that Heavenly Father blessed me with such a beautiful place to live and with my new ward family and friends!

I am not a Mormon yet, but I sometimes read the New Era. I want to say thanks for the beautiful pictures in the August New Era, especially the ones by Kris Rasmussen, because I know her. She introduced me to the Church. The first time I saw Kris she was in complete traction (her arms, head, pelvis, and legs). I was on volunteer nurse’s aid duty, and I could hear her laughing clear down the hall. At first I thought her pain pills made her laugh, but the registered nurse said that Kris refused to take pain pills. She was singing Mormon songs with four too many people in her room. She said, “Hi, Becky.” (I had my name tag on, but I didn’t understand how she could read it clear across the room.) “Come in and join us. We need another alto.” (How did she know I sing alto?) That cracked me up, so I went in, and we sang pioneer songs.
That was my favorite wing at the hospital from then on. She was there for many weeks, and we all hated to see her go. She told everybody about Joseph Smith, and if she wasn’t talking, she was listening to the Book of Mormon on cassette tapes. She always asked if it was too loud, but you could tell she wanted everyone to be able to hear it. Sometimes she would get very excited about a part of it, and then she would turn off the tape recorder and tell us about it. She liked the part about the little submarines the Jaredites made and how God made lights for them with his finger. I liked it when she told me about Christ coming to America. She took time to listen to my problems and even introduced me to a cute Mormon guy. I wrote on her body cast too.
Kris believes that God wants her to go on a mission for the Church, and I know that she will in spite of everything. She never said how much it hurt her when she was in the hospital. You could tell it did, but she’d never cry in front of anybody.
Becky FreeportLarkspur, California

Photograph of Concepción, Chile, from Getty Images
When I read in the Book of Mormon about how Nephi always supported his visionary father, I concluded that most youth in the Church were probably like Nephi. But when my family decided that we needed to move to the desert, I felt more like Laman and Lemuel. I didn’t want to leave my home.
Like Nephi and his brothers, I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1). Both joined the Church when they were teenagers, and my mother waited for my father while he served a mission. They were active, hardworking members of the Church.
When I was in high school, the economy slowed down in our region of Concepción, Chile. Jobs dried up, and my father began having trouble finding work. Finally, he began looking for a job out of town.
His job search took him north to the city of Calama, in Chile’s mining region. He is a construction engineer, and he found a good job there. But he was alone and far away. We saw him only when he could afford the 32-hour bus ride home.
After a few years of seeing my father only two or three times a year, my mother felt that it was time to make a change. My parents concluded that the rest of our family needed to move north.
My younger brother had no problem moving. And my older sister, who was in college, set a good example for me.
“I’ll sacrifice my studies,” she said. “We need to be with our father.”
Everyone supported the decision to move except for me. I wanted to be with my father too, but I resisted making changes and personal sacrifices. I had my friends, I knew my surroundings, I enjoyed my lifestyle, and I wanted to go to college in Concepción. I did everything I could do to convince my mother that we shouldn’t go.
Finally, she said, “Son, your father is alone. He wants us with him. I wish you understood, but you’re too focused on yourself.” Then she reassured me, “We will have opportunities there.”
In my heart, I knew she was right—even though my head wasn’t convinced. I didn’t have a strong testimony at the time, but I decided to pray about whether I should go with my family. A clear answer came to me: “You need to leave this place.” I was sad, but I told my parents I would go.
Concepción is a green place with lots of trees. It receives 50 inches (127 cm) of rain per year. Antofagasta, the city near Calama we were moving to, receives only 0.1 inch (0.25 cm) per year.
The most shocking thing for me about the move was the actual trip. As we made our way north by bus, watching the transition from green to brown was agonizing. I wondered, “Where are the trees? Where are the cows in the countryside?” All I saw was dirt, rocks, and hills.
Obviously, northern Chile is a desert, so what else could I expect? I was reminded of how Laman and Lemuel felt when Lehi’s family left the land of their inheritance and headed into the wilderness.
I had a lot of fears when we arrived in Antofagasta. What would happen if I didn’t make any friends? What would happen if I couldn’t get used to the area? What would happen if my hopes for the future didn’t come true?
In the end, I shouldn’t have worried. My mother was right about the opportunities awaiting us—especially the spiritual opportunities.
Before our move, the gospel wasn’t a priority for me. The Lord was in the background. But in Antofagasta, people came into my life who helped me see the beauty of the gospel. I received help from special priesthood leaders. I made friends who remain a treasure to me. My spiritual life changed completely.
Sergio visits with friends at institute.
I’m grateful I listened to my mother. I’m grateful the Lord answered my prayer. I’m grateful I had the courage to move north with my family.
Here in the desert is where I made the changes that helped me become who I am today. Here is where I committed to embrace the gospel, serve a mission, marry in the temple, and dedicate my life to the Lord. Here is where I determined that I no longer wanted to be like Laman and Lemuel.
For my family and me, the wilderness turned out to be our promised land.

We will never forget the Sunday when a new family of German origin moved into the Pusuqui Branch in Quito, Ecuador. The branch president introduced the Fuchs family during sacrament meeting, and we immediately felt they were special people.
After sacrament meeting I took my family to welcome them. Andreas, the oldest of their children, greeted us warmly and introduced himself as Andy. Something about that moment signaled the beginning of a friendship that was to be deep, true, and certainly eternal—a friendship that left us an unforgettable legacy.
Time passed, and the Fuchs family became very involved in our branch. I was Young Men president at the time, and I soon saw that Andy’s enthusiasm showed in all areas. When we began a service project, he was first to appear—with a big smile.
Andy was an extraordinary person, due to the goodness of our Heavenly Father and the guidance of his earthly parents. From an early age, Andy had been nourished by their affection and patience. He and his father, Horst, shared many activities and were indispensable to each other. This example so matured Andy that at age 14 he was a person of ability and usefulness. His many abilities never ceased to surprise us, but he was humble about them. He was totally dedicated to learning the gospel of Jesus Christ and lost no opportunity to talk to people about the Church.
No one supposed Andy would leave us so soon. We still remember that painful Saturday when we learned of his tragic death.
That morning Andy decided to ride his bike to the top of a hill in the area. He had already done so once with his father and was determined to repeat the feat alone. After getting his father’s permission, he set out. As he rode up the hill, a truck transporting wood down the hill careened wildly. It struck Andy and killed him instantly. It was difficult for us to accept that this tragedy had occurred to such a bright, promising young man.
The truck driver was seriously injured. He was taken to a hospital in Quito under police watch so he would not escape justice for what he had done. Surely, we thought, he should be held accountable for the accident. But from Horst Fuchs we all learned to forgive.
The branch president and I went with Brother Fuchs to identify Andy’s body. While the death of his son was very painful, he forgave the person who had taken Andy’s life. He refused to hold animosity in his heart. A few days later he visited the truck driver in the hospital and told him that he forgave him. He offered his help and spoke to him about the gospel of Jesus Christ. While the truck driver was recovering at home, he started receiving the discussions from the missionaries, who were accompanied by Brother Fuchs. Brother Fuchs also intervened in the justice system to have all charges against the man dropped.
I know this demonstration of love has its foundation in the gospel of Jesus Christ—the gospel by which the Fuchs family lives. The Fuchs family is indeed exceptional. Their example showed us that only through Christ does great strength come, as well as comfort and support.
Overcoming the pain made us better people. Although we understood that there would be tears along our path through life, our branch saw from Andy’s legacy and his father’s example that we must have faith and work diligently to live and share the gospel every day. And because of Jesus Christ, we have faith that we will meet Andy again.

Softball season was approaching, and we had just enough girls in our ward for a team. Our coach, Sister Bowman, was a busy mother who had been asked to make an unlikely group of girls into a team. Sister Bowman turned out to be the best coach I ever had.
At the first practice, Sister Bowman went over the rules of the game. Then she laid out the “new rules.” She said, “This year we will not only be scored for our runs; we will also be scored for our sportsmanship. I want you to do your best. But win or lose, I want you to have the highest sportsmanship score possible at every game.”
Sister Bowman’s rules went something like this:
Before each game, greet the opposing team and wish them luck.
If a girl on your team makes an error, encourage her. Do not criticize.
If a member of your team or the opposing team falls down, help her up and make sure she’s all right.
Do not say unkind things to any member of your team or the opposing team.
Each girl who shows up for the game will have an opportunity to play, regardless of her ability.
Win or lose, enthusiastically cheer the opposing team and shake each competitor’s hand.
Sister Bowman regularly emphasized these rules.
The first game went well. Though we weren’t the best players in the world, we discovered that encouraging each other boosted the confidence and abilities of the entire team. When we won that first game, we found it was easy to cheer the opposing team. After all, it’s easy to be a good sport when you win.
Our real test came the first time we lost. One of the girls cried because she felt responsible for our loss. We gathered around her and assured her it was all right. We were surprisingly enthusiastic as we cheered the winning team and shook their hands. Even though we lost, we realized we’d had fun. Most importantly, our sportsmanship score was high.
As the season progressed, our focus shifted. We liked winning, but we became as interested in our sportsmanship scores as we were in the game scores. What started as a list of rules was becoming second nature to us.
At the end of the season when the stake leaders reviewed our record—games won as well as sportsmanship scores—we were the stake champions. We would be representing our stake at the regional playoffs.
When the big day arrived, we were ready to play our best. The team we were playing was undefeated, and when we went over to wish them luck, they didn’t seem as friendly as the other teams we had played. As the game progressed we began to realize that these girls were not playing by our rules. It seemed to us that they intended to win at any cost. They laughed at us. They ran into us and knocked us down every chance they got. If one of the girls on their team made an error, they yelled at her and called her names. Even their coach was yelling at them.
In the dugout Sister Bowman continued to encourage us, and we hung in there. Near the end of the game, and only one point behind, we were up to bat. With runners on, we had a hit. One of our teammates came around third base and headed for home plate. In an attempt to keep us from scoring, the catcher stood across home plate. But her efforts didn’t prevent our runner from crossing home plate safe. The score was tied.
Our team was excited, but then we noticed that our teammate was still at home plate. She didn’t get up. She just sat there crying and holding her ankle, which had been cut by the catcher’s cleat. The girls on the other team were too busy yelling at each other to apologize or help her up.
As our injured friend sat on the bench, we scored another run and to everyone’s astonishment, including our own, won the game.
We gathered on the grass for the awards ceremony. First we received our medals for winning the playoffs, then waited for the next award. We were excited. The sportsmanship medal, the award we had worked so hard for all season, was within our grasp!
But we sat in shock as the sportsmanship medal was awarded to the other team. Our faces fell. Our hearts sank. How could this be? We felt we had earned that medal! Had the region leaders felt they could not send the other team home empty-handed? This turned out to be the greatest test of what we had practiced all season. Could we show true sportsmanship by graciously accepting this decision, despite our disappointment? It was difficult, to say the least.
Afterward, Sister Bowman took us out for pizza to celebrate our “victory.” Any casual observer would never have guessed that we had just won the region softball championship.
I still have that medal. I keep it in a box with other treasured keepsakes. It reminds me of what we won. More important, it reminds me of what we deserved to win and of the lessons Sister Bowman taught me that summer. She taught me how to compete and still have fun. She taught me that everyone has value. She taught me that winning is not, and should never be, the most important thing. I suppose she taught me the true meaning of the saying “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” That philosophy, I have found, applies in life as well as in softball.

Nothing is more inspiring than to see youth praise God by honoring him on his holy day. Let me recount the story of one of them to you. Eric Liddell had been raised in China by missionary parents. When he returned to Scotland for his education, he discovered while playing rugby that he was fast on his feet. Those who watched him run called it sheer artistry. He was a wild runner, technically imperfect, but with exultant, liquid speed.
As Liddell continued to run, he began to receive honors. Friends pushed him to train for the Olympics, but his devoutly religious sister, Jennie, thought it would turn his attention from God. She knew he couldn’t be half-hearted about anything and she said, “Be honest with me. How much time will you have left for God?”
But Liddell’s father advised him differently. “Run in His name … and let the world stand back in wonder.”
And wonder it did. Liddell became known as the “Flying Scotsman,” making the 1924 British Olympic team with ease. On the way to Paris for the games, however, a reporter tossed him a question that startled Liddell. “What about Sunday? Do you think you can beat the Yanks?”
Liddell had not known that the heat for the 100-meter race he was scheduled to run in was on Sunday. The news made him a quiet passenger, and his sister’s words echoed in his mind: “Your mind’s not with us anymore, Eric.” It was heartbreakingly clear to him what he had to do. He could not run in the race, even if it meant undoing all the years of training, even if it meant disappointing his teammates.
They took the news badly, and Lord Birkenhead, who was leading the group, took it worse. “Won’t run?” he bellowed and turned red. He simply couldn’t understand.
Liddell responded, “I’m not sure that I understand. … I’ve run, driven myself, and run and run again for three whole years just to be on this ship. I gave up rugby, my work has suffered, I’ve even deeply hurt someone I hold very dear. Because, I told myself, if I won, I would win for God—it was his will. And now I find myself sitting here destroying it all, with a couple of words. But I have to. To run would be against God’s law.”
The pressure on Liddell didn’t end there. In Paris, he was called into a special meeting with Lord Birkenhead and the Prince of Wales himself. Had he no allegiance to king and country? “There are times,” said the Prince, “when we are asked to make sacrifices in the name of that loyalty. Without them, our allegiance is worthless. As I see it, for you this is such a time.”
Liddell was uncomfortable, but unmoved, and the tense situation was only resolved when a teammate entered the room and offered to give up his spot on a 400-meter race on Thursday so that Liddell could still run.
That Sunday at church, Liddell read from Isaiah 40:31. [Isa. 40:31] It was not an easy day for him, for he longed to be running for the gold, but he told the congregation what he told himself: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Later that week at the 400-meter race, he had his chance to take the Lord at his word. As the runners lined up at their marks, rumors circulated among the crowd that Liddell would never win this race. He was a sprinter, fast in the short haul, but could he take this quarter-mile distance? But as he stood at the line, Liddell received a boost that the crowd didn’t know. One of the top runners on the American team handed him a folded piece of paper that read, “In the Old Book, it says, ‘He that honors me, I will honor.’”
Liddell won that race that day. He got his gold. In doing so, those who watched believed he had passed the supreme test. He had found the courage to throw his head back, push his heart until it almost burst, and cross the finish line ahead of all contenders. But that was not really the supreme test. The supreme test he had passed on the boat on the way to France, in the meeting with the Prince of Wales, and again that Sunday while he watched the race he might have run. The supreme test in any life is whether one can stick to his highest ideals when glory or expedience pressures us away from them. (Excerpted from W. J. Weatherby, Chariots of Fire, Dell/Quicksilver, pp. 50–165.)

She was a young girl. She had sacrificed her worldly plans to spend long, tedious hours in work in order to provide for and raise her younger orphan brother. But now she lay on her bed, dying of a sickness. She called for her bishop, and as she talked to him in her last moments, he held her rough, hard, work-calloused hand in his. Then she asked the question “How will God know that I am his?”
Gently he raised her wrist and answered, “Show him your hands.”
Someday we may see that pair of hands that sacrificed so much for us. Are our hands clean, and do they show the signs of being in his service? Are our hearts pure and filled with his thoughts?

David Dunn told the story of a man walking down the sidewalk past a little girl sitting on the doorstep of a house looking very dejected. He said to her, “That’s a very pretty red dress you are wearing, young lady.”
She looked up at him and smiled and said, “Oh, thank you,” and her face lit up at this compliment. Later, when he passed her house again, she brightly said, “Hello—Man!”6
He had found a friend. It is easy to find friends as we pass this way if we acquire the attributes that attract friends. Friends are some of our most priceless possessions.

A returned missionary came to see me one day for some advice about whether he should join a particular group at the University at this point in his life. When asked what he thought about it, he suggested several ideas that seemed to point to one course of action. When asked what he really felt inside about it, at first he looked puzzled then he smiled as he recognized that the feeling was different from what most of his reasons suggested.

One day a boy stopped at my office and for several moments talked very negatively and critically about the Church, suggesting several reasons why the Church just couldn’t be the Lord’s Church. When asked to search deeply within himself, to examine his conscience concerning the matter as to whether or not the Church was the Lord’s, he replied after some reflective thought, “I feel it is the Lord’s Church.”

Another individual was advocating the new morality, suggesting that a boy and girl are free to choose the way they will show their affection for each other based on the circumstances, without fear of law or punishment, neither of which he felt existed. He was confronted with God’s standard of morality and the truth that there is something within each person that comes from the Lord to assist him in distinguishing between good and evil. When he was challenged to look within himself to see which of the two conflicting approaches to morality was really right, he replied, after some pause, I feel God’s standard of morality is right, which is different from what I have been saying.

Mormon wrote that “the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil …” (Moro. 7:16.) He further said that the true way to judge is to be able to discern one’s feelings, “… for every thing which inviteth to do good … is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ …” (Moro. 7:16.)

The reflective thought within a person must be sincere and done with real intent. Many times an individual will lay aside the influence of the Lord in favor of what seems appealing or rational at the moment. Such an individual may fluctuate back and forth in his feelings. If the negative feelings are a true source of inspiration, they will continue to be felt if one really wants to know what he should do.

On one occasion a girl was trying to decide whether or not to marry a certain young man and was confused because at times she felt doubt and uncertainty and at other times was certain she wanted to marry him. When they were together it seemed right, but when she was alone or away from him, there was much doubt and uncertainty. We talked about many things: the kind of person she wanted to marry, the element of trust in marriage, possible reasons for her doubt, and why at times it seemed all right. Toward the end of the conversation she was asked to consider what she really felt was the right thing to do. After a few moments she said that she had really known all along it wasn’t right but had just put aside those feelings. One must follow the counsel of Mormon and “search diligently in the light of Christ that ye may know good from evil …” He then promised, “… if ye will lay hold upon every good thing, and condemn it not, ye certainly will be a child of Christ.” (Moro. 7:19.)

Long years ago I reorganized the Star Valley Wyoming Stake at the time the legendary leader President E. Francis Winters was released. He had served faithfully and with distinction for many years.
The Sabbath day dawned; the members came from far and wide and crowded into the Afton, Wyoming, chapel. Every available space was taken. As the reorganization of the stake presidency was concluded, I did something I had not done before. I felt impressed to conduct a modest exercise, and I asked publicly, “Would all of you who have been given a name or been baptized or confirmed by Francis Winters please stand and remain standing.” Many stood. Then I continued, “Now will all of you who have been ordained or set apart by Francis Winters please stand and remain standing.” Another large number swelled the ranks of those standing. “Finally, will all of you who have received a blessing under the hands of Francis Winters please stand and remain standing.” All the remainder stood.
I turned to President Winters and, with tears coursing down my cheeks, said to him, “President Winters, you see before you the result of your ministry as stake president. The Lord is pleased.” Silence prevailed. Heads nodded their approval as sobs were then heard and handkerchiefs retrieved from every purse and pocket. It was one of the most spiritually rewarding experiences of my life. No one in that vast throng will ever forget how he or she felt at that hour.
After the work of the conference had been concluded, good-byes were said, and I began the drive home. I found myself singing the favorite hymn from the Sunday School days of my youth:
Thanks for the Sabbath School. Hail to the day
When evil and error are fleeing away.
Thanks for our teachers who labor with care
That we in the light of the gospel may share. …
Now in the morning of life let us try
Each virtue to cherish, all vice to decry;
Strive with the noble in deeds that exalt,
And battle with energy each childish fault.
And then I literally boomed the chorus:
Join in the jubilee; mingle in song.
Join in the joy of the Sabbath School throng.
Great be the glory of those who do right,
Who overcome evil, in good take delight.
I was all alone in the car—or was I? The miles hurried by. In silent reverie, I reflected on the events of the conference. Francis Winters, a bookkeeper at the community cheese factory, a man of modest means and humble home, had walked the path that Jesus walked, and like the Master he “went about doing good.” He qualified for the Savior’s description of Nathanael as he approached Him from afar: “Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile!”

Being true also allows us to have a positive effect on the lives of others. I recently heard this inspiring story of a young woman who, through her commitment to be true to her beliefs, had a great impact on another young woman’s life.
Several years ago Kristi and Jenn were in the same high school choir class in Hurst, Texas. Although they didn’t know each other well, Jenn overheard Kristi talking with her friends one day about religion, their various beliefs, and favorite Bible stories. Recently, upon reconnecting with Kristi, Jenn shared this story:
“I felt sad that I didn’t know anything about what you and your friends were talking about, and so for Christmas I asked my parents for a Bible. I received the Bible, and I started reading it. This began my religious journey and my search for the true Church. … Twelve years passed. During that time I visited several churches and attended church on a regular basis but still felt that there was something more. One night I fell on my knees and begged to know what to do. That night I had a dream about you, Kristi. I hadn’t seen you since we had graduated from high school. I thought my dream was strange, but I didn’t attribute it to anything. I dreamed about you again for the next three nights. I spent time thinking about the meaning of my dreams. I remembered that you were a Mormon. I checked the Mormon website. The first thing I found was the Word of Wisdom. My mother had passed away from lung cancer two years previously. She had been a smoker, and reading about the Word of Wisdom really hit home with me. Later I was visiting my father’s house. I was sitting in his living room, and I started to pray. I asked to know where to go and what to do. At that moment a commercial for the Church came on television. I wrote down the number and called the same night. The missionaries called me three days later, asking if they could deliver a Book of Mormon to my home. I said, ‘Yes.’ I was baptized three and a half months later. Two years later I met my husband at church. We were married in the Dallas Temple. Now we are the parents of two beautiful little children.
“I wanted to thank you, Kristi. You set such a wonderful example throughout high school. You were kind and virtuous. The missionaries taught me the lessons and invited me to be baptized, but you were my third missionary. You planted a seed through your actions, and you truly have made my life better. I have an eternal family now. My children will grow up knowing the fulness of the gospel. It is the greatest blessing that any of us can be given. You helped bring that into my life.”
When I contacted her, Kristi shared: “Sometimes I think we hear the list of attributes that the thirteenth article of faith outlines, and we feel overwhelmed. However, I know that as we live these standards and strive to follow Christ’s example, we can make a difference. … I feel much like Ammon in Alma 26:3 when he says, ‘And this is the blessing which hath been bestowed upon us, that we have been made instruments in the hands of God to bring about this great work.’”

In 1898, President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was Elder McKay, and he was homesick while serving as a missionary in Scotland. He had been in the city of Stirling for a few weeks and was discouraged. One day, on their way into town, he and his companion noticed an unfinished building. “Over the front door,” President McKay later said, “was a stone arch, something unusual in a residence, and what was still more unusual, I could see from the sidewalk that there was an inscription chiseled in the arch.
“When I approached near enough, this message came to me, not only in stone, but as if it came from One in whose service we were engaged: ‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part’” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1956, 91).
Elder McKay took this message to heart, and he made his mind up to act his part well as a missionary and throughout his lifetime of service.
Today, the original stone from Scotland is in the Church Museum of History and Art in Salt Lake City, Utah, while a replica is in the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.

Another mother was concerned one day that her 16-year-old daughter was not home at the usual hour. When the girl finally arrived, her mother quizzed her with some frustration about where she had been. The 16-year-old almost sheepishly replied that she had taken a flower to a widow who lived nearby. She had noticed the older sister looking lonely and felt prompted to visit her. With her mother’s complete approval, the young woman continued to visit the elderly woman. They became good friends, and their sweet association continued for years.