Gospel Story Finder

I underwent an operation on September 24, 2018, and had many people by my side taking care of me. A few days after the operation and being discharged, while at home, I felt a lot of fever inside me. I visited the clinic again, and after several tests, they found that during the surgery to remove the colon tumor, they had left a small hole causing the fever. I developed sepsis because no hole was supposed to remain after the operation. I had to stay in the clinic for one more week.
On the third day of being hospitalized, I felt extremely sad. I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked many questions. After finishing my prayer and shedding many tears, there was a knock on the door of my room, and to my surprise, it was the two missionaries who were attending my ward at that time. Seeing me crying, they prayed with and encouraged me. I told them about the prayer I had made and how the Lord had sent these two messengers to me.
Thanks to my Heavenly Father, I overcame the sepsis and moved on to the next stage, which, although difficult, was a true miracle. I had to undergo chemotherapy, and when I received the first treatment, I suffered another health setback. A port was inserted to administer the chemotherapy, and the doctor who placed it put it in too high, causing me to have four embolisms and two pulmonary infarctions. My oncologist couldn’t explain how I had survived the embolisms and infarctions. I told her that I believed God was keeping me alive because I still had important work to do for Him.

One night, some years later, after I had been ordained an Apostle, the prophet of God called me and asked me to read something that had been written about Church doctrine. He had spent the night reading the chapters of a book. He said with a chuckle, “I can’t get through all of this. You shouldn’t be resting while I’m working.” And then he used almost the same words my father had years before: “Hal, you are the one who should read this. You will know if it is right to publish it.”

Ahhh, the warm, comforting smell of bread baking has spread to the homes of several Laurels of the Patuxent Ward, Suitland Maryland Stake. The girls are involved in a service project that helps fulfill a value project for their Young Womanhood Recognition. In order to learn the skill of baking bread and to serve the ward members, they have been taking turns providing homemade loaves of bread for the sacrament.
Each girl takes a turn that lasts for six weeks. This time provides ample experience in improving her bread-making skills. The ward members noticed the change from commercially produced bread, as their bishop announced the service project to the congregation. Bishop Scott Shumway said the practice loaves were a delicious addition to their family dinners.
The homemade bread, blessed and served each week, has made the girls more aware of roles they can play in providing this service to the members.
“It was a time to appreciate the sacrament more. Also, I’ve had lessons about supporting the priesthood, and making the bread for the weekly service seemed like a really good way to do that. It made me happy to make it,” said Bethany Shumway, the bishop’s daughter.
Also, Megan Prettyman felt their bread enhanced her appreciation of the ordinance. “It seemed to make it more personal since I had spent three hours the day before making the bread. I thought about the sacrament all during that time, not just during the meeting.”
Meagan Boswell was impressed with the ward members’ reactions. “People thanked us for taking the time and said how it made them think more about the sacrament that week. It was nice to have something to share with the whole ward.”

Today, I want to share a lesson I learned with our daughter over 10 years ago that might help you become the person the Lord wants you to become.
Maria Jesus was a big fan of the band One Direction. When she was 14 years old, she found out they were going to Chile and begged to go to the concert; she even made a list of commitments and a contract. For us as parents, it was an excellent opportunity to work with her on the things she needed to improve, like her grades and keeping her room clean and organized, for example. So, she made a list of the things she was committing to. Tickets were bought one year before the concert. (I need to mention that she kept all her commitments and did a fantastic job.)
The day of the concert finally came and after many hours in line to get into the stadium, she went in and enjoyed the two hours the concert lasted. You could see the joy in her face.
The following day, Maria Jesus cried all day long. Even though she had a wonderful time, she was sad and felt empty; what she had worked hard for was now over. In fact, we found out that many who had attended the concert went through the same.
Maria Jesus learned a couple of big lessons that year:
My dear friends, fill your life with spiritual things, the things that matter most and will bring eternal joy.

I think also of an account I read about a sweet lady, the wife of one of our early pioneers. Her name was Catharine Curtis Spencer. She was married to Orson Spencer, a sensitive, well-educated man. Catharine had been reared in Boston and was cultured and refined. She had six children. Her delicate health declined from exposure and hardships after her family was forced to leave Nauvoo. Elder Spencer wrote to her parents and asked if she could return to live with them while he established a home for his family in the West.
Their reply: “Let her renounce her degrading faith, and she can come back—but never until she does.”
Sister Spencer would not renounce her faith. When her parents’ letter was read to her, she asked her husband to get his Bible and read to her from the book of Ruth as follows: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”4
Outside the storm raged, the wagon covers leaked, and friends held milk pans over Sister Spencer’s head to keep her dry. In these conditions, and without a word of complaint, she closed her eyes for the last time.
This is the spirit of serving God. This is the spirit of putting Him first in our lives. Though we may not necessarily forfeit our lives in service to our God, we can certainly demonstrate our love for Him by how well we serve Him. He who hears our silent prayers, He who observes our unheralded acts will reward us openly when the need comes.

When I was a college freshman, I would go with my roommate to visit her 98-year-old great-great-uncle, whom we affectionately called Uncle Joe. He lived alone and was lonely, so we tried to visit him as often as possible. During our visits he would tell us stories about when he lived in Mexico and in several border towns in Arizona, including Nogales.
When my roommate temporarily moved back home, I felt prompted to continue visiting Uncle Joe. He became a close friend, and I visited him until he passed away a year and a half later. I was sad to lose my friend but grateful for the valuable time we had spent together.
As I read this entry, I realized that the Joseph Kleinman who had helped my great-grandmother was Uncle Joe! I felt the Spirit whisper that I had been inspired to continue visiting Uncle Joe as a small thank-you for the kindness he had shown to my great-grandmother and her family.

When Stephen and Richard were born in 1985, twins were exciting, triplets happened occasionally, and quadruplets were rare. That septuplets were even possible was a relatively new idea.
Being in the first set of septuplets born in the United States brought a lot of attention to their family. Sadly, only Stephen, Richard, and their sister, Patti, survived the first few weeks, and the brothers were left battling cerebral palsy. Soon all the attention diminished, and the brothers would learn that being different isn’t easy.
“They’ve had to deal with a lot of teasing growing up because they couldn’t do some of the things other kids were doing,” says their father, Sam.
When their friends or family members play sports, Stephen’s and Richard’s participation is limited. But the two boys don’t see themselves as handicapped. They always give everything their best shot.
For example, when Richard (whose reflexes are better than Stephen’s) got a skateboard, Stephen wanted to ride it too. He didn’t give up until he had learned to balance and roll slowly down the street.
“He’s got real stick-to-itiveness,” Brother Frustaci says. “Neither of them gives up.”
Every Young Man
The Frustaci brothers’ challenges haven’t kept them from enjoying life. Stephen loves to play with the dogs, read, and run. He recently made his school track team. Richard loves music, skateboarding, and playing water polo.
Their challenges also won’t keep them from earning the Duty to God Award.
“There are some requirements Stephen won’t be able to do,” stepmom Toni says, “and some might have to be modified. But I think kids with challenges would be able to accomplish most of these requirements.”
Among the Duty to God goals for priests are to get a part-time job (something Stephen hasn’t been able to find yet), get a driver’s license (something he probably won’t ever be able to do—much to his dismay), and hike 15 miles with a pack in two days or less (the 15 miles is fine, but the pack is out).
Even so, with a little help the brothers are capable of completing enough requirements in each category to earn the award—which is only fitting, since like every young man, these brothers have a duty to fulfill and a desire to fulfill it.

Here is an example from my own experience of how our attitudes change when we move from being hard-hearted (or walking in darkness) to being brokenhearted (or walking in the light). When we moved to Utah from New Mexico and bought a pine siding house, we didn’t know that it would drink gallons of stain. Every year! I neglected it the first year. But by the second year the need for care was obvious, and I set out to complete the task in the month of July. I figured that if I began July first, scraping off the paint that was peeling, I could apply the rejuvenating, absorbent stain and be finished by July thirty-first. On August twenty-eighth I was finishing the last wall. It was a hot day—I was feeling martyred and had tripled my frustration level by occasionally getting the dark brown stain on the two yards of light buff brick at the bottom of the wood. I would break out the solvent-soaked rags from my rub-it-off-quick kit, wipe off the bricks, and then go back to rolling on the stain. Out of the corner of my eye I saw our station wagon come around the corner and remembered that my wife had taken our preschooler to the mall for a new outfit.

I knew two things about my daughter. First, she would come home wearing whatever they had purchased. Second, she would promptly show me. In that moment, I had a feeling consistent with living in the light. It was not necessarily a feeling born of rationality, although some of you would think that any rational person would have acted on this feeling. But the feeling and thought was a moral one and consisted of the idea that I ought to lean the roller against the wood and walk so that I would be standing between the five-gallon bucket of stain and my soon-to-be-coming-around-the-corner daughter. That is exactly what a person walking in the light would have done. But I did a very Lemuel-like thing. I resisted the light within me. Immediately, my thoughts and feelings changed. The first thought was one that would get me off the hook for any future doom that might occur. The thought was, “I sure hope Karen has the sense to keep Cammie from running over here.” I also remember muttering to myself, “If I have one more interruption today . . .” Here comes Cammie around the corner. Now, remember, I am now living in darkness. The problem I am about to have is not a matter of IQ but of honesty—or should I say dishonesty. I am not being true to the light within me.

At this point I did what hard-hearted people often do instead of act. I talked. “Cammie, look out, stay back, don’t . . . !” I quickly rushed over and, still holding the stain roller away from her, was able to deftly push her away from a collision course with the stain bucket. I pushed her down. Her knee hit the only sprinkler head within about twenty feet. I asked (feigning concern), “Are you all right?” Real compassionate. I sent her in the house after being semi-relieved that though she had gotten a grass stain on her new slacks, she had not torn them. I sighed to myself about how hard life can sometimes be. A few minutes later I came to my senses. That is, I returned to the light—which is to say, I softened my heart. I then saw my role in creating and maintaining a problem. In fact, as Terry Warner has pointed out, for the hard-hearted, the very way I saw the problem was the problem. The way I saw was an expression of the condition of my heart. What I saw and felt was what hard-hearted people see and feel. I was blind to the reminder from the Lord that

if your eye be single to my glory, your whole bodies shall be filled with light, and there shall be no darkness in you; and that body which is filled with light comprehendeth all things. [D&C 88:67]

In my hard-hearted moment I didn’t comprehend anything, not even the joy of a little girl wanting to share a joyful moment with her father.

Thomas Carlyle lived from 1795 until 1881. He was a Scot essayist and historian. During his lifetime he became one of the world's greatest writers. But he was a human, and humans make mistakes.

On October 17, 1826, Carlyle married his secretary Jane Welsh. She was an intelligent, attractive, and somewhat temperamental daughter of a well-to-do doctor. They had their quarrels and misunderstandings, but still loved each other dearly. After their marriage, Jane continued to serve as his secretary. After several years of marriage, Jane became ill. Being a hard worker, Carlyle became so absorbed in his writings that he let Jane continue working for several weeks after she became ill. She had cancer, and it was one of the slow growing kind. Finally, she became confined to her bed. Although Carlyle loved her dearly, he very seldom found time to stay with her long. He was busy with his work.

When Jane died they carried her to the cemetery for the service. The day was a miserable day. It was raining hard, and the mud was deep. Following the funeral Carlyle went back to his home. He was taking it pretty hard. He went up the stairs to Jane's room and sat down in the chair next to her bed. He sat there thinking about how little time he had spent with her and wishing so much he had a chance to do it differently. Noticing her diary on a table beside the bed, he picked it up and began to read in it.

Suddenly he seemed shocked. He saw it. There, on one page, she had written a single line. "Yesterday he spent an hour with me and it was like heaven; I love him so." Something dawned on him that he had not noticed before. He had been too busy to notice that he meant so much to her. He thought of all the times he had gone about his work without thinking about and noticing her.

Then Carlyle turned the page in the diary. There he noticed written some words that broke his heart. "I have listened all day to hear his steps in the hall, but now it is late and I guess he won't come today." Carlyle read a little more in the book. Then he threw it down and ran out of the house. Some of his friends found him at the grave, his face buried in the mud. His eyes were red from weeping. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He kept repeating over and over again, "If I had only known, if I had only known." But it was too late for Carlyle. She was dead. (11)

Perhaps it was this experience that motivated Thomas Carlyle to write the phrase, "The greatest of faults is to be conscious of none." We would, indeed, be foolish if we saw no need to improve ourselves to strengthen our marriages.

Sarah sank back against the dusty seat and peered anxiously out the streaked window ot the bus. She managed a shaky smile at three figures peering up at her. Tears came unbidden, and Sarah drew back quickly, dashing them away. Then the bus began to snort and cough as the motor turned over in protest. Sarah felt her heart jump to her throat as she watched the faces search the windows for a last glimpse of their daughter. She waved frantically as the bus shook itself a final time and lumbered out into the street that ran by the Placertown meetinghouse. The bus, with it’s chattering load, swung laboriously around the corner, and the farewells were over.
Sarah settled back against the seat and fastened her hands around the small suitcase resting on her lap. She smiled down at the brown case that held the “reminders” her foster mother had chosen for this trip home. Each year for seven years Sister Allen had tucked a small package under her daughter’s arm and placed a warm kiss on her cheek as the bus drove up. Every year the long, anxious ride back to the reservation had been made bearable as Sarah examined each article and note enclosed. This trip, however, the case was not opened. Sarah was 17 now and anxious to test her newly discovered maturity. She would wait to open the package after she had returned to her home and blood family. Later, perhaps, in the privacy atop some wind-cooled mesa with only the rustling sagebrush to interrupt her thoughts, Sarah would examine her treasures.
Sarah stirred sleepily in her seat and glanced wearily out the window. With a start she realized that she had been asleep for several hours as the red rock mesas of the Navajo reservation came into sight. Her heart leapt as she saw the old trading post that signaled Keyah Tso and home lay only miles up the long, barren highway. Sarah shook out the folds of her dress and smoothed back the straight black hair that had tumbled into her eyes. She was excited as she thought of the reunion with her family.
Suddenly Sarah realized her lap was empty. The case was gone. Frantically she looked about and discovered it laying in the aisle beside her seat. Snatching it up, she clutched it protectively.
As the bus ground to a stop before the red-roofed building, Sarah caught sight of a small group of velveteen and dungaree-clad Navajos. One anxious figure stood shyly apart from the others. Sarah saw that her mother had donned her favorite red velveteen blouse and green cotton skirt for the occasion. The woman’s wrists and fingers were covered with silver and turquoise, and around her neck hung the beautiful turquoise necklace Sarah’s father had made just before his death. Her long, gray-streaked hair had been tied back in the traditional bitsi yaal knot. Her mother waited patiently as Sarah climbed down from the bus and ran to meet her. The two stood looking at each other for a long, silent moment. The older woman put her shoulder against her daughter’s in a shy gesture of welcome. Sarah placed her hand on the velveteen-covered arm and gently squeezed. A smile, a sigh, and the encounter was over. The girl turned back to the bus, waved a cheery goodbye to her friends, picked up her suitcase, and turned to her mother. Sarah cleared her throat, a little embarrassed, and spoke to her mother. The sharp glottal sounds of Navajo felt strange and unaccustomed on her tongue. Soon she found herself chattering comfortably to the small group of Navajo women and children riding with her in the back of a ’56 pickup. As the clay-smeared vehicle bounced its way down the road to the Yazzie home, Sarah became the center of attention as the women and children listened avidly to the description of her way of life away from the reservation.
Suddenly the air seemed heavy with the odor of sagebrush, and Sarah knew she was home once again. Overhead an eagle winged across the sky before soaring behind the face of a red rock mesa. Then she saw the smoke curling from the mud chimney of the Yazzie hogan. The pickup stopped with a loud screech of brakes; children jumped over the sides. The wooden door of the home flew open, and Sarah saw the excited faces of her two brothers peering out. They showed no embarrassment as they greeted her and drew her impatiently to the sheep corral to meet the shaggy newborn lambs.
It wasn’t until the sun had gone down and the family had gone to bed that Sarah remembered her case. Already the memory of her other world had begun to dim. The familiar odors of the one-room dwelling and the sounds of a desert summer night had replaced the buzz of city life. The mutton stew and fry bread at dinner had seemed more than delicious to Sarah. She would have it again and again, but it would never seem as good as it had this first night home. She turned over on the skeepskin bed, burrowing herself into its warmth, when a gentle tug of memory brought forth the image of the brown case. “Tomorrow,” she thought. “Tomorrow.”
Sarah woke abruptly, gazing into a mischievous face. The face was attached to a small, wiggling body that was firmly planted on her stomach. She guiltily realized that she had slept in. Daylight was already beginning to fill the hogan, and she knew her mother had been up for several hours. Sarah put her squirming brother on the dirt floor of the room and scrambled into her faded jeans and calico shirt. She dashed cold water from a large metal bucket on the heavy wooden table into her face and ran a wire brush through her thick, tousled hair. On the table she found some cold potatoes and fry bread that tasted good with the chilling-cold well water. Outside in the distance Sarah could hear the bleating of the sheep. As she stepped out of the hogan into the bright sun, she saw the kneeling body of her mother. Sarah leaned over her and watched her work-roughened hands push the shuttle back and forth rapidly, marveling again at the beautiful and intricate designs appearing on the loom. Sarah felt proud as she realized that this rug would bring a very good price at the reservation trading post. Almost unnoticeable to the inexperienced observer was the tiny flaw in the colorful design. Sarah’s mother had left one thread unbound so that her soul would not be caught up and forever imprisoned in the rug—an old Navajo custom.
She felt a flash of fear as she realized how different her two worlds were. A hand reached out and tugged her to the loom. Sarah crouched beside her mother and took up the shuttle. Her fingers were clumsy as she worked to place the bright threads in their proper order. Soon she was engrossed in the project and didn’t notice her mother rise slowly to her feet. The old woman shook out the folds of her full yellow skirt and disappeared into the hogan.
An hour had passed before the young girl’s legs began to ache from the unaccustomed position. Her fingertips were sore from the pressure on the strings of the loom. Sarah tossed her hair from her eyes and, groaning a bit, rose to her feet. As she shook her legs, her mother appeared in the doorway. In her hands was a parcel wrapped in cloth, a remnant of an old skirt Sarah had worn years ago.
“Take this to John, my daughter,” the woman said. “He will be hungry.” Sarah took the package, waved to her mother, and started off across the sage-covered ground at a trot. She knew every bush, hole, and rock on this part of the reservation. Her brother would be with the sheep some miles away to the west. The fodder was good there this time of year; it was also their share of the reservation land. Good manners decreed that each family honor his neighbor’s grazing rights.
Sarah could hear the sheep not far ahead. She approached quietly. Her brother was perched on a rock, chewing a weed, his eyes half-closed against the sun. Sarah dropped down beside him.
“Mom sent your lunch,” she said, a bit out of breath from the walk. “Why don’t you let me keep it, and you go on home. I’ll watch the sheep the rest of the day.”
“Sure you remember how?” teased her brother.
“Go on,” grinned Sarah, “get out of here,” and she aimed a playful kick as he jumped out of the way. He set out across the desert at a rabbit’s pace.
Sarah leaned contentedly against the rock and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth. As the complacent animals grazed, Sarah dreamed girlish thoughts. A pesky fly buzzed about her ears and lit on her face. Lazily she batted at it, but it clung persistently to her nose, and she opened her eyes in exasperation. A darkly handsome face grinned familiarly down into her startled eyes. Sarah gasped in fright and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding wildly.
“I’m sorry, Sarah!” The boy choked with laughter. “It was too good a chance to pass up.” He waved a long slender twig in front of her nose. “You looked too peaceful lying there.”
“Oh, Benny!” Sarah’s voice shook. “You scared me to death. Where did you come from? I never even heard you come up.”
“Oh,” he returned flippantly, “you know how Indians can sneak through the grass.” He eyed her for a silent moment, then added, “You’ve grown some.”
“Well, one does that after a year’s time you know. And what,” she demanded, “have you been doing for a year, Benjamin Johnson?”
“Well, now,” he drawled, “I’ve been here and there, doing a bit of rodeoing, a bit of dancing, and so on. And what,” he returned, “have you been doing with yourself this year?”
“Oh,” Sarah faltered in embarrassment, “the same I do every year.”
“Do I detect a white lining inside—sort of like an … apple,” he mocked.
“Honestly, Benny!” she snapped. “You act so, so …” Sarah cast wildly about for the proper word, “Indian!” she finished lamely.
Benny grinned at her confusion. “Truce!” she cried holding up her arms in mock surrender. The uncomfortable moment passed, and soon Sarah found herself up to date on the happenings of her reservation friends. Ben had a quick wit and sense of humor. Several hours passed and shadows began to stretch across the prairie. The air carried a hint of the coolness of the oncoming desert night. Soon they began the walk back to the corral. Ahead of them moved the animals. In the still, nippy air Sarah shivered, and Benny draped his green sweater over her shoulders, laughing as the arms swallowed up her small hands. After several moments of silence, broken only by the calling of lamb to ewe, Benny glanced down at her.
“Sarah,” he began a little shyly. Sarah looked up in surprise at the serious note in his voice. Benny kicked at a clod of red clay with a boot, then, casting a rock high into the air, announced quickly, “My folks are throwing a squaw dance tomorrow night at our place.” He glanced down at the girl and asked, “Will you come?”
Sarah hesitated, caught between ready assent and nagging doubt. Some of Benny’s friends were not her friends. Sarah had watched with regret over the past few years as Benny began to fall in with some rough company. Word had come to her this year at school of some trouble that had concerned Benny and his friends. Word was they had been involved in drugs. Sarah had seen students in the city school with glassy eyes and slack mouths. Indoctrination from both sides of the drug question was intense, and Sarah had felt the pressure at times. Now as she eyed him, Sarah felt a pang of uncertainty. Benny’s friends would be at the dance and her friends were back in the city.
“I’ll try to be there,” Sarah offered in a low voice. The boy released a pent-up breath and kicked a rock in embarrassed delight. The flock bleated in alarm and moved as if to break ranks. Sarah could see the smoke from the Yazzie hogan rising against the darkening sky. She turned to Benny.
“I can take them on in from here,” she said softly. A silent moment, and then he said hurriedly, “I’d come for you tomorrow night, Sarah, but I’ll have to help with things. You will come, won’t you?”
The sheep were moving on toward the corral, and Sarah went after them. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll try.”
The hogan was warm. On the black, pot-bellied stove a pan of beans bubbled. A kerosene lamp threw shadows on the walls as Sarah sank down on a rickety chair and surveyed her family. Her brothers were engrossed in a game of marbles on the hard-packed dirt floor. Her mother sat vigorously carding the dirt and burrs from a pile of sheep’s wool at her feet. The dislodged dirt fell on the apron of her skirt. After a moment, she arose and began serving the evening meal of fry bread and beans. Sarah spoke softly to her mother as she, too, moved about the room, helping to dish the steaming beans into bowls. She spoke shyly of her visitor at the grazing grounds, and the mother listened with quiet interest. As Sarah talked of the invitation to the dance, a frown of concern crossed the older woman’s face. Sarah changed the subject quickly, wishing that she had not told Benny she would try to be there.
After the dishes were washed and stacked away in the small wooden cupboard, Sarah moved to a corner of the room, Placing the brown case on her lap she drew back the lid. There was a deep crimson scarf. Inside the scarf she found a note scribbled in childish letters. Her eyes watered as she read the short love note from her foster sister. In the bottom of the case lay another card. On the front of the card was the picture of a single white rosebud against a background of royal blue. Sarah turned it over, and written on the back in the neat printing of her foster mother were the words “To Thine Own Self Be True.” That was all; but to Sarah it spoke volumes. She could remember the night she had received this card. How proud she had been of her mother that evening. They had been invited to a mother-daughter dinner, and Sister Allen had been the featured speaker. Her stories of chastity, honesty, and loyalty had touched hearts, and at the end of the program, each girl received a single rosebud and the accompanying card.
Sarah pressed the card to her lips and felt a warmth within her. To Thine Own Self Be True. It had not been an easy doctrine to follow, but she had had friends with the same goals, and they had helped each other. The girl sat lost in her thoughts until the friendly squabbling of her brothers disturbed her.
Too soon the evening of the dance came, and Sarah could not still her doubts. Yet she found herself dressed and standing at the door of the hogan. Already the fires could be seen flickering in the distance, and the rhythmic beat of the drums and the sing-song of the chants floated across the summer air. She clutched her jacket and stepped out into the cool desert evening. She half-turned toward the lantern-lit hogan and, seeing her mother at the loom, forced a cheery wave, hurrying off toward the Johnson camp.
As Sarah neared the huge fire, she paused in sudden shyness. She searched the faces and found many familiar ones. A strong hand came from out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist. She jumped nervously and swung around to find Benny grinning down at her. Her heart beat rapidly, half in alarm and half in wonder at the expression in his eyes. Ben drew her closer to the circle of his friends who greeted her. The dancing started, and Sarah found herself caught up in the beauty of the Navajo chants. Young and old alike joined in the round dances, and the rhythm of shuffling feet began to weave a spell around her.
Sarah and Ben danced silently together for a moment, then Ben said in a serious tone, “You’re the prettiest girl here tonight, Sarah—and the nicest.”
“You’re pretty nice yourself, Ben.” Sarah returned with a smile. “If only … ,” she stopped in confusion. The boy stopped dancing abruptly, causing Sarah to stumble against him.
“If only, what?” he demanded.
Sarah glanced over at the small group of his friends huddled together in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. She was saved from answering the question when one of the boys in the group called to Benny, “Hey, lover boy, come on over and bring your girl.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then took Sarah by the hand and pulled her over to the group. The circle moved apart, and Ben dropped to the ground, pulling Sarah down with him. She glanced around apprehensively. Several of her old girlfriends were there, and they had always been nice girls from good families. She relaxed a bit and took their teasing in good humor. They began their own chants, and the feeling of companionship grew. But Sarah realized that she had grown out of touch with many of her Indian friends, and she was surprised to see that they were maturing too. The girls were clean and dressed in style; the boys had lost their adolescent shyness. Leaning against Ben and listening to the group, Sarah wondered why she had felt such a reluctance to come. Maybe she had been too quick in labeling Benny’s new friends as roughs. She felt a quick flash of pride that they had accepted her so fast. She knew now that it was important to her that she remain their friend.
“Having a good time?” Benny asked softly, breaking into her thoughts.
“Oh, yes.” Sarah sighed. “It’s been such fun.” She leaned her head shyly on his shoulder and breathed deeply of the freshness of the night air.
Slowly Sarah became aware that Ben was nudging her with an elbow. “Here.” he whispered softly, thrusting a small, long object into her hand. The girl glanced down in surprise and saw that he held a cigarette in his hand. She looked up questioningly at Benny, but his attention was on the others in the group. Sarah became aware that each one in turn was lighting a cigarette, passing the match around until it sputtered out in someone’s fingers. She could smell the smoke from the lit cigarettes, and it carried a peculiarly sweet odor with it. Her new friends smiled encouragingly across the circle. Suddenly she realized that every eye was on her.
The match became a torch, telling her to catch hold of its fire. The odor was stronger now, overwhelming her with its sweetness. She reached for the match, wanting to be a part of this group, wanting desperately not to lose Ben’s friendship. It would be so easy, she reasoned. No one need ever know about this one time.
Sarah became dimly aware that a voice, quietly but clearly, was sounding in her head. The words took focus, and Sarah gasped as the match burnt her fingers. The voice whispered, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” She looked around in confusion and saw that her new friends were all watching her.
“No! I can’t!” she blurted, jumping to her feet. Sarah stood a moment, then turned and left the circle, stumbling in her haste. She realized she had probably forfeited her friendship with them all. She was sick that Benny had been a part of it.
Her hot cheeks began to cool as she said a silent prayer of thanks for her escape. She straightened her shoulders as a sense of returning strength came to her.
“If only Ben had not …” she began to herself but could not finish as she felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart.
“Sarah! Sarah!” The words came sharply over her shoulder, making her jump in alarm. She whirled to stare unbelievingly at Benny who stood grinning at her, panting a little from his run.
“I won’t go back, Ben,” she announced firmly.
“Who wants you to?” Ben returned tartly. “I’m coming with you,” he added in a gentler voice.
“But your friends?”
“You’re my friend, Sarah.” Then he added in a serious voice, “I’d very much like to be your friend, Sarah.” He waited quietly, ready to accept her answer, knowing it might be a refusal.
Sarah’s eyes began to shine, and she gave Ben a playful push. “I’ll be dull company,” she said teasingly.
Ben grinned as he recognized and accepted her answer. He reached over and gave her long hair a gentle tug. “I’ll get used to it.”
“C’mon,” Sarah laughed. “I’ll race you home.”

As a child, I couldn’t wait for Christmas. When Mom brought out the boxes of decorations, my five brothers and I knew that Christmas had begun. We would always set up the tree as a family. I still remember the handmade ornaments and the many shiny colored glass balls.
One part of the decorating, however, Mom took care of herself. My grandmother had made Mom a beautiful white porcelain nativity. Every year, Mom would set the nativity on the large mantle in the living room. I loved to sit and watch her put each figure in place. Under each figure, she put a tiny white light from a string of lights. She taped one end of the lights to the mantle to secure them, and then she plugged them into the outlet behind the chair in the corner. When the mantle lit up, it was a beautiful sight!
One night, close to Christmas, my brothers got a little rowdy. The older ones chased my younger brother. In the midst of the chase, he hid behind the chair next to the mantle. When my brothers found him, he rushed to escape, but his foot caught the string of lights underneath the nativity. The small pieces of tape were no match for the pull of his foot. The delicate nativity shot down from the mantle onto the red brick below, shattering into pieces.
Mom rushed into the living room. When she saw what had happened, she burst into tears and went to her room. She knew it was an accident, but the damage was done.
That night, after we were all in bed, Dad got out the dustpan and the broom and carefully swept up the broken pieces. Then he stayed up all night gluing the pieces together.
The nativity still bears some scars. The cow is missing an ear. One wise man is missing a piece from his face. One shepherd is more glue than porcelain in some places. But, miraculously, the broken figures were mended.
Grandmother offered to make a new nativity, but Mom declined. She said her nativity means even more to her now. It serves as a symbol of the devotion of her loving husband and as a reminder of our loving Savior.

One day, a few months after my baptism, I heard some members criticizing each other in church. I was very disappointed. I went home and told my father that maybe I should not go to church anymore. It was difficult to see members criticize others like that. After listening, my father taught me that the gospel had been restored and it is perfect but members are not yet, neither himself nor me. He firmly said, “Do not lose your faith because of the people around you, but build a strong relationship with Jesus Christ. Don’t look around, look up!”
Look up to Jesus Christ—the wise advice of my father—strengthens my faith whenever I face challenges in life. He taught me how to apply the teachings of Christ, as in these words: “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.”4

Sam threw open the door of his room and stood there. He couldn’t see anything wrong with it. His ball and bat were in the corner right where they should be. His bird’s nest was on the dresser. His extra lumber was under the bed. The bag of nails, the saw, hammer, the screwdriver, the sandpaper, and the glue were all neatly stacked on the floor. Even the three cartons full of interesting bits and pieces of things he had collected were piled neatly along one wall. The sign saying Save More at Our Store that the grocer had given him was taped to the wall opposite the window.
He kept his flowerpots in cartons on Eddie’s bed during the day, because that was the only place the sun could reach them, and he kept his moon maps and unstrung guitar on Fred’s bed. Then at night he carefully put everything out of the way so that both Eddie and Fred could get into their beds.
But now Sam was puzzled. His mother had told him that he must get rid of some of his things. And the more he stood and looked into their room, the more he could not see one single thing that he could throw away.
“If you want to get a racing set,” she explained, “you must make room for it.”
“I can put the set on Fred’s bed in the daytime,” he said.
“Fred already has the guitar and moon maps on his bed,” his mother replied.
“Well, what about Eddie’s bed then?” Sam asked.
“Did you forget that your boxes of flowerpots cover Eddie’s bed?”
“Yes,” Sam said, “I guess I did.”
“The only place for the racing set is on your own bed during the day and under your bed at night. You’ll just have to get rid of some of your other things.”
Sam sighed. His paper route earnings had finally brought him enough money for the racing set pictured in the catalog. But sharing a room with two brothers had made space precious.
Sam started to work on the three cartons. He couldn’t remember what was in them, and he didn’t want to throw away anything that was important. In the cartons he found some little houses left over from a building block set, some old lead soldiers that had been his father’s, an umbrella with the cover gone, and more foil flowerpots.
“Those shiny pots,” he said. “I wish they were pits. Pits,” he said again. “That’s it! Pits!” And he began to work harder.
His mother came to the door and said, “It’s time for lunch, Sam.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Sam replied. But he went right on with his work and forgot all about lunch.
Soon Eddie and Fred came into the room. “What are you doing?” Eddie asked. “Why is that stuff all over my bed?”
“Don’t worry, Eddie. I’m going to take it all off your bed soon. But for now you two go out and play. I’m busy!”
Sam hammered and nailed and sawed and glued and tied. Before long the doorbell rang. Sam dropped everything and ran to answer it.
“Sam Harding?” the delivery man said.
“Thank you,” Sam told him. Then Sam took the box and headed down the hall toward his room.
“Wait,” Mother called. “Be sure there’s enough space in that room for everyone! I haven’t seen you make one single trip to the trash to throw out anything.”
“I’m not throwing anything out,” Sam said.
“I’m not having any old racing set on my bed!” Fred insisted.
“Don’t worry,” Sam replied. “When I get this finished, I’ll show you.” Then he went into their room with the box under his arm.
An hour later Sam called, “You may all come in now.”
On a platform made from the lumber that had been under Sam’s bed, the new racing set gleamed. Sam had nailed the small houses from the building blocks set to the planks. The soldiers stood guard at the gate.
“How did you make the gate, Sam?” Fred asked.
“I made it from the umbrella spokes.”
“What are these?” Eddie wanted to know, pointing to the flattened foil flowerpots.
“Those are racing pits for the mechanics,” Sam answered. “See the mountain? That’s that old mossy rock. The raspberry boxes are the grandstands—you know, for the spectators.”
“Why do you have those little bales of straw there near the curves?” Mother asked.
“To protect the people,” Sam answered. “I made them out of my bird’s nest and some string.”
The three cartons were arranged around the platform.
“Those are our seats,” Sam explained. “We sit on them to race the cars.”
“Even the moon maps are gone from my bed!” Fred exclaimed.
“Look up there,” Sam directed. He had taped the maps to the ceiling. “The moon belongs up in the sky anyway.”
“Let’s race!” Fred shouted as he sat on the carton with his name on it.
“You did a good job, Sam,” Mother laughed. “I didn’t think you could do it without throwing away some of your treasures.” She was quiet for a minute, then she continued. “I have a box on my closet shelf that I keep thinking I should throw away, but somehow I can’t do it.”
“I know just how you feel, Mom,” Sam sympathized. “If you ever need an expert to help you, let me know!”

That care and love I have been fortunate to observe as the blessings of ministering were poured upon my family.
While I was travelling for work some time ago, my wife fell very ill and I could not immediately be with her and the children. Her situation became so dire that she was almost admitted to hospital. All I could do was to phone her and try to comfort her.
As soon as my wife missed this one Sunday when she was ill, I got a reassuring message from one of her Relief Society sisters: that they would immediately set in motion a chain of actions to help a sister in need.
I still get emotional as I re-read a series of WhatsApp messages of that very tough day. As soon as word spread that all was not well in my household, one of her ministering sisters asked on WhatsApp two simple but poignant questions: “Are the kids sick, too? Would you like a meal or two?”
Unsurprisingly, my wife felt helpless. All she could say was, “Yes.”
This “Yes” I now know was an affirmation of her belief that, with ministering, help is never far away. In the end I realized that not only was my wife ill that weekend, but our three children as well because everyone had contracted a very bad strain of flu.
The help was generous, and my wife assured me that it was sufficient enough that I would not have to cut my business trip short to rush home.
I knew these women who were her ministering sisters. Their diligence often inspired me to do my own ministering service as they never missed an appointment with my wife.

When my father brought in the mail today, he said there was an article in the New Era he thought I should read. I read the coverline that said, “Eating Disorders, P. 36” and I gave him a glare. I then walked into my room and read the article. I’ve been warned for about six months by many people who think I have anorexia nervosa. When I read that article, I felt like my prayers had been answered. It seemed like Janet Thomas was writing it directly to me. I want to thank the New Era for publishing “Eating Disorders: A Deadly State of Mind” and Janet Thomas for writing it. The article really opened my eyes. I do not know how I will ever pay you back.
Name WithheldMinnesota

“Fred Astaire was an iconic actor, dancer, and singer of American cinema. He starred in dozens of Broadway and Hollywood shows. One of his early auditions was evaluated with these words: ‘Can’t act. Slightly bald. Can dance a little.’
“Hardly a glowing report!
“Through persistence and hard work, he developed his abilities until he became one of the greatest performers of all time—known for his ‘elegance, grace, originality, and precision.’”

The other day I was reading the story of a baseball player. His name was Charles Gerringer. I guess he was quite a star on the Detroit Tigers team. The story indicated that it was the last half of the ninth and two men were down. Charlie Gerringer came to bat. He stood there with confidence and the first pitch came. He didn’t swing. The umpire called, “Strike!” He frowned, looked at the umpire. The second ball came by. “Ball!” cried the umpire. Charlie smiled. The next ball came. “Strike!” Charlie looked at the umpire and glared at him with that kind of glare that implied he’d like to throw down his bat, take off his cap, and engage the umpire in fisticuffs. But he knew better. He was there to hit that ball. So he pulled down on his cap, took a determined look, and here came the next pitch and Charlie smote. I don’t suppose he ever hit a ball harder. Somehow it didn’t rise in the air more than twelve feet, but it went for the left field fence. And by the time it got there it was low enough that the outfielder could grab the ball with a running jump, a one-handed spear catch. The ball game was over. Charlie didn’t say a word, but walked toward the dugout. One of his friends came up, patted him on the back, and said, “Tough luck. I have never seen you hit a ball so hard.”

Charlie’s answer, gravely, was this: “I have hit ’em higher.”

There’s a lesson in that we should never fail to try to do the best we know how. We’re going to make mistakes, but there is a power within the individual to really achieve what he wants to achieve.

After spending her childhood in different locations throughout the United States, Sister Jeannie Anette Dennis thought her dreams had come true when her family moved to Cottonwood Heights, Utah.
“I thought everybody in Utah was a member of the Church and that it was going to be a haven here,” she said.
During her first few days in ninth grade, she was excited to be invited to a party. But a girl who became her best friend warned her that people at the party would be using drugs.
“I learned very quickly that the world is everywhere,” she said. Her testimony and a gospel-centered home, however, kept her strong throughout high school.

Last March, University of Utah forward Britton Johnsen was making a huge impact in Texas, helping to propel his team on its incredible cruise through the NCAA finals all the way to the championship game in San Antonio. There he played in an arena packed with some 41,000 screaming fans and was watched by a worldwide television audience of several hundred million. Britton’s impressive play under pressure wasn’t surprising considering the titles and descriptions he’d earned: McDonald’s all-American, Utah’s Mr. Basketball, top-20 recruit, “a star in the making,” “breathtakingly talented,” and “able to jump out of a gym.”
This March, Britton continues to make an impact in Texas. Only now he has traded his blazing red jersey for a white shirt and tie, his audiences seldom exceed a handful of people, and his only title is “Elder” as he serves in the Texas Houston Mission.
Shortly after the NCAA finals, Britton announced his decision to serve a mission. The decision came at no small sacrifice. Many people, including Utah head coach Rick Majerus, say Britton has tremendous NBA potential, but leaving the game for two years may jeopardize his pro chances. “Coach was saying everything he could to get me to stay,” recalls Britton. “I’ve been told that if I stay for all four years in a row, I’d definitely go pro.”
Still, when asked how he’d feel if serving a mission meant giving up the NBA or even his college career, Britton quickly replies, “It would be worth it.
“I could join the things-of-the-world team, maybe go to the NBA, make it big, make a lot of money. Or I can play on the things-of-the-Spirit team. Basketball will someday end. But the Spirit is always there—if you do what’s right, it will never leave you.”
Britton is quick to shrug off praise he receives for being willing to give up so much, pointing out that everyone who serves a mission does so at some sacrifice. “Just leaving your mom and dad is sacrifice enough!” He says that for his twin brother, Brandon (serving in the Canada Calgary Mission), going on a mission was every bit as significant and every bit as difficult.
Coming out of high school, Britton was heavily recruited by several top programs. He signed with Utah so he could eventually play with his older brother, Jeff, who had played one year for Utah before leaving for his mission.
Britton began the season with great expectations—sports magazines listed him as a top-20 recruit and compared him to Keith Van Horn, the Utah all-American who had been a number-two NBA draft pick in 1997. But hopes for Britton came crashing down when he sustained a knee injury early on.
“I planned on having a great year, going on a mission, then coming back for three more years,” he says. But as the season progressed, Britton’s injury kept him on the sidelines. “The season was turning into a disaster.”
For the first time in his life, Britton began to question whether he should go on a mission. Majerus told the press that if Britton were to go after being benched all year, “his pro chances are null and void and his chance for a college career is really in peril. He can’t sit three years.”
Dejected and struggling, Britton turned to a man he looks up to more than any other—his father. “He was such a boost. He would just sit me down and help me open my eyes and realize the right thing to do. But there was no pressure. I knew he would have supported me either way.”
Still wanting more than anything a chance to play before the season ended, Britton also turned to his Heavenly Father. “I prayed nonstop that my knee would improve and that I’d have a chance to prove myself.”
In what seemed like a small miracle, just three games before the end of the season Britton began to get playing time. “Coach said I’d been working so hard that whether he won with me or lost with me, he was going to put me in.”
After being benched all season, Britton was out of sync at first. But with each game, his performance improved and his playing time increased. Astonishingly, by the time the NCAA tournament started, he was playing remarkably well. He was a big factor in the underdog Utes’ upset victories over third-ranked North Carolina and defending NCAA champion Arizona.
“This is what I got from the Lord—the chance to prove what I could do,” says Britton. In the end Britton got his dream come true: an opportunity to play—and play well—in the NCAA championship game.
Britton’s older brother Jeff, who continues to serve in the California Fresno mission, helped Britton keep the whole thing in perspective. “Jeff told me that through all this attention Satan would try to get me not to go. But he bore his testimony to me and let me know that a mission is still so much better than playing basketball.”
Another answer to Britton’s prayers also came during the NCAA tournament—surprisingly, from a competitor. Mark Madsen is a Stanford starting forward who led his team to the Final Four last year. He also happens to be a returned missionary.
Like Britton, Mark knew the thrill of playing in a Final Four game, although his team lost. The day after the loss, Mark shared his testimony at a ward in San Antonio. “I heard that Mark bore his testimony, saying that it had been one of the best weeks of his life, but that it still didn’t compare to his feelings of being on a mission,” says Britton. “Hearing this made my decision easier.”
“That was the greatest dream of my life.” When Britton says this, he’s not talking about playing in the biggest game of college basketball. He’s not describing how he felt knowing millions of sports fans were watching him. Rather, he is talking about a brief, unexpected encounter he had with the First Presidency shortly after the finals.
Back in Salt Lake City, Ute players were presenting a signed basketball to the First Presidency when an assistant coach suggested Britton discuss with them his decision to serve a mission. Before Britton knew what was happening, he found himself alone with the First Presidency in President Hinckley’s office.
“I was totally stuttering,” says Britton. “I said, ‘Going on a mission has been a tough decision, and I guess I already know what the right thing to do is, but it would be nice to hear what you’d say.’ Then President Hinckley smiled at me and said, ‘Well, what do you think I’m going to say?’”
“President Monson explained that I had been a highly touted freshman, that I had been pressured to stay, and that some people were saying I could represent the Church in other ways. Then right away President Hinckley stood up, took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said very clearly, ‘You go on a mission and the Lord will bless you.’ It was an awesome feeling.”
Not long after, Britton had a final talk with his father and his coach, then announced his decision to serve. “It just felt right; I just felt good about the decision,” Britton explains.
In the end, Britton’s coach supported his decision. “It is with regret and sadness from a basketball standpoint that Britton departs, but I am pleased because he seems to be so at peace and happy about the decision,” said Majerus. “I’m proud to be a coach of so many young men who felt so good about a religious experience that they would want to sacrifice their basketball.”
This year, Elder Britton Johnsen won’t be participating in March Madness. But he says that’s okay with him. “I get the same goose-bumpy feeling just reading my scriptures as I do playing in front of 40,000 people,” he says. “Besides, the things I’ll gain on my mission and the things other people will hopefully gain because I go will make it all worth it.”

She had just finished caring for her precious flowers one morning in ’59 when she received a phone call telling of an accident at her husband’s work. Two weeks later, father and son lay side by side for what she believed would be forever.

It had been hard after that accident that took her husband, but with help from the older children who were married and gone, she had managed to keep the house and property from becoming real estate owned by the Peoples City Bank.