Gospel Story Finder

When Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone was visiting our area for a conference, my wife and I wanted our family to know something about him and his family. So we read a story to our children about Elder Featherstone’s son, who hurt his leg in an accident.
The boy had wanted to compete in an upcoming track meet, but he couldn’t run in any of the events because of his hurt leg. However, at the meet he found an event he could enter—the sit-up contest. As the contest began, Sister Featherstone was worried when she saw how many sit-ups her son was doing. But he wouldn’t give up. He did 1,001 sit-ups, winning the blue ribbon.

A few years ago, my mother was diagnosed as having a malignant brain tumor. Despite the crushing news, my father, a firm believer in miracles, insisted that she could recover if our family exerted the necessary faith. We prayed fervently, and Mother received many priesthood blessings. But her condition grew steadily worse.
Desperate yet undaunted, Father continued to attend the temple daily. As I stood at the window and watched him leave for the temple early one morning, I remembered a day many years earlier, when my little brother was thrown from a horse. Thinking he had suffered only a little bruising and a bloody nose, I was devastated when he died late that night. My world caved in, and for months I mulled over the painful question, Why hadn’t Heavenly Father sent a miracle to save my brother’s life?
I turned away from the window, thinking about miracles: Who is entitled to them? Are they granted strictly by faith? How, exactly, do you measure a miracle? Then I thought of my mother. Now she seemed to be slipping away—dying from a second brain tumor some thirty-five years after her first one had been removed. She had lived happily and productively—a full life—and I wondered if there could be another miracle in store for her.
When I kissed her for what would be the last time in this life, I told her I loved her. The serene look on her face as she passed away convinced me that I had witnessed one of the greatest miracles of all. Because of the reality of the gospel and of Christ’s resurrection, I knew she was smiling again, embracing all those loved ones who had gone on before.
I still don’t know how to measure a miracle, but it no longer matters. Miracles happen with every breath we take. And sometimes the best miracles are not in living, but in going home.

As I sit here today I am reminded of an invitation I received 15 years ago. It was from a good friend of mine who was attending school here. He asked me to come and visit him for two weeks while I was on break from my school. I didn't feel like I had the time or the money and struggled with the decision. As I thought about it I mentioned it to my Dad one morning. He simply said, Go, it could change your whole life. I was surprised by his answer but when I heard those words I felt a deep impression that they were true. So I came and as a result fell immediately in love with this place. So much so that I didn't want to leave when my two weeks were up, but knew that I had to. So I did, with a prayer in my heart that some day He would allow me the blessing of returning to stay and be a permanent part of this wonderful university and place. I mean it when I say, I am truly grateful for the opportunity to be here today.

When Paul H. Dunn of the First Quorum of the Seventy was eleven years old, baseball was an important part of his life. Paul’s parents permitted his team to use their large backyard to play baseball. The yard was completely fenced in, with a pathway beyond the rear fence. On the other side of the pathway was a large church with a beautiful stained glass window that faced the fence at the back of the yard.
One hot summer evening an exciting baseball game was in progress in the Dunn backyard. It was Paul’s turn to bat, and he hit the ball so hard that it went over the back fence, over the pathway, and then, to everyone’s dismay, through the large stained glass window in the church. It seemed to young Paul that the broken glass fell for hours. The players ran away in every direction.
When Paul got up the courage to return home, he discovered that his father had two visitors. They were both ministers from the neighboring church. To Paul’s surprise, they seemed to know from which house the baseball had come. Paul admitted to the ministers that he had hit the ball that had broken the window and told them that he was very sorry.
Paul’s father put his arm around his son’s shoulder, patted him on the head, and said, “This is a good boy.” He, too, apologized for the accident and asked how much it would cost to replace the stained glass window. They told him that it would be about $500.
It was then that his father taught young Paul a great lesson. He asked the ministers if they understood the principle of Christ’s atonement. They seemed a little puzzled. His father said, “In our Church, we believe that ‘through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel’” (A of F 1:3). He explained that the atonement allows each of us to be forgiven of our sins if we repent. Jesus paid for all our sins when He suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane. As the only perfect person who ever lived on earth, he was the only one who could do this for us. We could not do it for ourselves. Without His sacrifice, we could never be forgiven of our sins and would not be able to live with Heavenly Father and Jesus again.
Paul’s father pointed out that although Paul had broken a window, he would never have the money to pay for it himself. Then he said, “As Paul’s father and because I love him, I will pay the price that he cannot.”
This experience helped Paul understand what Jesus did for us when He atoned for our sins. At this Easter time we can be thankful that Heavenly Father loved us enough to send His Son so that we can be forgiven when we do something wrong.

As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

One night my dad was at a Church meeting. Me, my mom, my three brothers, and my sister decided to go to the track at 8:30 p.m. My brothers and I ran around the track with my sister. We found frogs and heard bats. Eventually we were tired, so we walked around once more with Mom.
Now it was really dark outside, and we could see the stars. Even though the moon and the stars were bright in the night sky, there were still lots of shadows as me and my little brother raced to go through the gate to the car. I was the first one to get to the gate and suddenly had a deep, warm feeling in my heart to look left. There in the shadows, slithering out of the gate into the light, was a big, long snake! He curled up right by our car.
I immediately grabbed my brother and ran back to Mom, saying, “There’s a big snake right by the gate.” We didn’t know what kind of snake it was. We called our grandpa to come help, but the snake already slithered away.
I am grateful for the warning I received from the Holy Ghost. Otherwise we might have gotten hurt. I am glad to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

As they walk through the Kiev Botanical Gardens, Lilia Velbivets and Aliona Papilenkova explain. “Youth in the Church are a lot like those trees,” Lilia says. “We shelter each other, we protect each other, and together we grow straight and true.”
Lilia talks about her family’s growth in the gospel. “My mother and I met the sister missionaries, and we were excited to learn about another testament of Jesus Christ (the Book of Mormon). But my father was an atheist and slower to convert.” As the family took the discussions regularly, however, her father’s heart was touched. All three were baptized on the same day.
“The next year was wonderful as we prepared to go to the temple (in Freiberg, Germany) to be sealed as a family,” Lilia continues. “When we arrived I felt like I was at home, because the temple is the house of God and we are His children.”

There was once a young couple who had a sweet angel daughter about to turn three. Though money was tight, they wanted to have some kind of celebration for her birthday. Fortunately, the small child was too young to be aware of expensive gifts, so they decided that the regular Sunday afternoon gathering at grandma and grandpa’s house would be a great venue for a simple celebration with family.

The young mother woke up early that Sunday morning to prepare and bake a humble birthday cake. She pulled it out of the oven while preparing to go to church, but as they were walking out the door, a backward glance revealed that the cake had fallen significantly.

Upon returning home, the young mother faced a bit of a dilemma. She didn’t have the time or ingredients to start over, nor did she feel right about running to the store on the Sabbath. She’d just have to do the best she could.

She made up a double batch of frosting, and soon the hole was filled and the cake was nice and flat on top. She’d have to embarrassingly confess before the cake was cut into, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

That birthday cake is a fairly appropriate metaphor for my life. I try to act like I know what I’m doing in life—that I’ve kind of got my act together. But the truth is, one doesn’t have to scratch into the frosting very far to realize that I have some significant holes in my cake. The mistakes I have made in my life are pretty hard to miss when the frosting isn’t hiding them. And though they aren’t front-and-center to everyone else, I know they are there, and so does the Savior, and so does my Father in Heaven.

For many years those mistakes gnawed at my faith. How in the world, I thought, could my Heavenly Father and the Savior possibly love me? For they truly know what I am under that frosting.

Fortunately for me, my current job in online curriculum development causes me to explore, research, and investigate how the human brain works, and how we learn. At the top of my office whiteboard is written “The Myth of Errorless Learning.” This is a constant reminder to me that learning cannot occur without errors. In other words, mistakes are a necessary part of learning.

In this week’s devotional discussion board, I posed the question “Have you ever made a big mistake, but learned something really important from it?” There were several inspiring thoughts shared. Thank you to those who participated. I’ll point out two who both felt that although the mistakes might not qualify as “big,” they were definitely learning experiences. One student shared that as a young lady she worked summers on her grandparents’ farm. One morning she showed up a bit late. Her grandfather told her to go home because only those who arrive on time have the privilege of receiving earnings for the day. What a great lesson from a great teacher! A discussion post from another student was a classic. He registered for a course just to be in the same class as a particular gal. Turns out she dropped the class and he was stuck in it. What a way to learn a lesson! Now that’s what I call deep learning!

To some degree, when we make mistakes, we’re doing what we’re supposed to be doing. That doesn’t mean we should use them as an excuse to intentionally wander—but it does mean that honest mistakes don’t lessen our Father in Heaven’s love for us. The Savior’s Atonement makes even more sense when you understand this concept.

A few summers ago, my ward’s young men went mountain biking. I was a little nervous because it was my first time. My friend Jacob was an experienced biker, so I planned to stay close to him.
After a quick break at the top, we started back down the mountain. I was slower than the rest of the group and fell behind, especially after I fell a couple times on sharp turns. Jacob stopped to help me each time I fell, and we tried to catch up to the group.
As the sun set, it was obvious that we were lost. It had been more than half an hour since we had seen our group, and it was getting so dark that we could barely see the trail. I prayed, asking Heavenly Father for help and courage to keep going. Then Jacob and I decided to continue riding in a particular direction. As we rounded a corner, we saw the most brilliant and welcome sight—the Draper Utah Temple! The light reflecting off the temple illuminated our path, and we were able to safely make it back to our leaders and friends.
Every time I see the temple, I’m reminded of the peace and help available to us there. Each time I feel lost in the darkness of the world, I can look to the temple for the light I need.
Joel G., Utah, USA

You will very likely hear these words in your lifetime: “Are you a Mormon?” Perhaps it will be when your friends see that your drink of choice is root beer. Or maybe it will be when you decide to turn down a date to the school dance because you’re not yet 16 years old. Whatever the situation, you most likely won’t be asked at gunpoint. And your answer won’t determine whether you live or die. But that was the way it was for 19-year-old Joseph F. Smith.
After serving a four-year mission in the Hawaiian Islands, from 1854 to 1857, young Joseph F. Smith began his long journey home to Utah. He boated across the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco, then slowly began his journey by foot with a small company of Latter-day Saints.
One day when the company had stopped to camp and rest, a group of troublemakers came storming through. Most of the men ran and hid, but Joseph decided he had nothing to be afraid of, so he continued the task of piling firewood in the camp. As he did so, one of the men approached him with a pistol, declaring that it was his duty to exterminate every Mormon he came in contact with. As he pointed his pistol at Joseph, he demanded, “Are you a Mormon?”
Without fear or hesitation, Joseph answered, “Yes siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”
The man was so startled by the courage of young Joseph F. Smith that he dropped his pistol and said, “Well, you are the [expletive deleted] pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.” The man rode off, with the others following behind (Joseph Fielding Smith, Life of Joseph F. Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1938, 189).

Serving a mission can be a financial burden to any missionary and his family, but what do you do when you have three sons all wanting to leave at the same time? The Rozsa family has foreseen this, and the boys have been working since the age of 13 toward their missions. In addition to those icy Boston paper routes, they’ve sold avocados, worked in construction, and held other odd jobs. Last summer all three worked at the same taco stand at the same time, guaranteeing considerable confusion among unsuspecting customers. They report their bank accounts are in good shape for the missions to come.

The S¶o Paulo Tabo¶o Stake chose the theme of “Changing the World” for their youth conference during Carnaval. As they cleaned the square of a local public building, they had opportunities to introduce several people who passed by to the Church. They also knelt in prayer before giving copies of the Book of Mormon to many of their neighbors, none of whom refused the gift.
“These were the most wonderful days of my life. I learned how to help and serve my fellowmen. I am very happy to be a member of the Church. I want to serve a mission and help the people of the world to be as happy as I am.”
Debora, Second Ward, Bosque

When I was 19, my family lost everything. Life became overwhelmingly difficult for my mother, my siblings, and me. The uncertainty of our future weighed heavily on me. We often lacked sufficient food, and although my mother bravely hid her distress, I could see through her façade. Despair took hold of me, and I spiraled into hopelessness, convinced that my life would never amount to anything. In one of my moments of despair, I distinctly recall a voice in my mind asking, “Is this how your life is going to end? This is not who you are. You have the power to rise and shine. Just have a bit of faith.”
At the time, my younger sister had recently joined the Church. She frequently invited me to attend young single adult (YSA) activities, but I always declined—perhaps out of pride, feeling that I should lead the way as the older sibling. However, after my epiphany, I accepted her invitation. When I arrived at the YSA event, I intended to remain unnoticed, sitting quietly at the back. Yet a greeter at the door welcomed me warmly, and others approached me with genuine interest and kindness. They embraced me as their own and invited me to join in their activities. Surprisingly, I was surrounded by young people my age who radiated positivity and were full of joy. I felt truly loved and accepted for the first time in a long while.
My sister’s consistent invitations to church activities and the love and acceptance I received from the young single adults transformed my life. As I embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ, my faith grew. Though my future remained uncertain, I felt a renewed hope and peace. I was baptized in April 1997, and through that sacred ordinance, I came to understand that the voice I had heard during my epiphany earlier was the Holy Ghost. I am grateful for the constant companionship of the Spirit in my life today.
Faith, even in its most miniature form, can spark profound change. The Savior taught: “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you” (Matthew 17:20). The love, sharing, and inviting extended to me by my sister and the YSA community led me to the missionaries and, ultimately, to the waters of baptism. I witnessed a mountain in my life shift, and my heart and circumstances transformed. This journey deepened my testimony of Jesus Christ.
Today, my family (my wife and children) enjoys the blessings of the gospel, including the sacred privilege of being sealed together in the temple. From despair to divine hope, we have been showered with the Lord’s blessings. I testify that Jesus is the Christ and that we are led by a living prophet today. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In my own life I have seen the power that sinks in when a story continues to be written over time. Let me now share a story from my own life that surprisingly continues to be rewritten. At the age of twenty-seven, I gave birth to our second baby girl. At six weeks old she entered the hospital for three days straight as she battled a respiratory virus. Simultaneous to this event, I had been called to be Relief Society president. I found myself overwhelmed, exhausted, and worried sick about how I was going to fulfill my responsibilities in my Church calling and motherhood at the same time.

My doctor had advised against making home visits with our sick infant, and I had a three-year-old daughter who also needed my care and attention. That evening I had a fitful night’s rest and felt engulfed by the feeling of failure on all fronts.

I got up in the middle of the night and sat in the rocking chair rocking my baby back and forth, back and forth. I poured my heart out to God in prayer during those wee hours of the morning, explaining my predicament and pleading to God for direction on what to do. In that dark room, seven words came to my mind with more intensity than I had ever felt before. These words were “Treat her like she is your last.”

I pondered what those words could mean. By morning I had decided that God was encouraging me to pour my heart into caring for my two sweet daughters and to rely more heavily on my counselors and secretary to fulfill my Relief Society responsibilities. And so I did.

Over time I would pick up the story again, pondering its message that I knew came directly from God. Five years later, my husband and I found ourselves unable to bring more children into our family. My heart ached as I recalled dreams of having a large family like my own mother did.

But as this story came to my mind once again, those seven words took on new meaning. I remember shuddering at the new realization of those words. I understood that the words “Treat her like she is your last” were actually God’s way of preparing me for the reality that she would be my last baby. He didn’t explain it that way to me at the time because He knew it would be far too painful, and I would have grieved and complained at my circumstance instead of truly enjoying my sweet baby. All these years later, I acknowledge and thank God for His sweet and thoughtful care for me—such a gift!

And yet the ache of not having another child haunted me. For years I would silently count the number of children that other families had and use that as a measure of my own righteousness and worthiness in God’s eyes. Over time I worked my hardest to trust God’s plan for me. I finally began to feel some peace as I studied again the parable of the talents, in which one was given five, another two, and yet another just one talent.8 I committed then and there that I would take the number of children God had given to me and make the most of these incredible blessings and talents. Over time my heart healed as I accepted the path that God had placed me on, even though it differed from my original plans.

Fast-forward a few decades to when I unexpectedly picked up this story from my life again. This time I found myself in the office of the academic vice president at BYU. He was interviewing me about the possibility of my becoming dean of the McKay School of Education. Never in my wildest dreams had I planned or sought for a position such as this—let alone becoming a professor. And yet, over time, this unimagined life has become my story.

Academic vice president Justin Collings said, “Tell me a little bit about yourself. Tell me your story of how you got to this place.”

Imagine my shock and surprise when the words that came tumbling first out of my mouth were the words God had put on my heart decades earlier: “Treat her like she is your last.”

Then I explained the importance of these words to the vice president. While the astonishment of sharing that story didn’t make much sense to him, tears fell as I walked back to my office in a drizzling rain. In that moment I realized that those seven words weren’t just about healing my heart but were now about realizing that God had a different plan for me—from the beginning. I realized that my life wasn’t an alternative or backup plan that I was living. No, this was His plan all along: plan A.

I felt a wave of His deep love for me—His daughter—wash over me. And I was reminded again of President Kevin J Worthen’s plea to all BYU students: “Please, let Him love you.”9

Interestingly, my story doesn’t end there. You see, a few weeks after my visit with the academic vice president, I was asked to give this devotional. In preparation for this talk, I was struggling—as I think most do with the stress of selecting a topic for a talk. I thought briefly of sharing this story of mine but opted for a less personal story. That is, until one of my seven brothers sent me the following email:

Sarah, I feel I should share some impressions I’ve had over the last couple of days. . . . I know you would have liked to have had more children, but for whatever reason it was not in the cards. I look at you kind of like Rachel, who also desperately wanted more children but likewise didn’t get what she wanted. But look at the quality of her children.

With your current job/calling, the Lord has carefully prepared and called you with your superb talents to have a profound influence on literally thousands of youth and children. That is no mistake. Oftentimes it is not the path that we would choose that the Lord puts us on. But He’s got you where He wants you. I have no doubt.

I read my brother’s email and wept, knowing that his email was God’s way of reassuring me once again that my interpretation of this particular story from my life was accurate and that I was on the right path—His path for me specifically.

Can you see how He lets others write parts of your story too? Do you see how God continues to teach and instruct, using the same story over and over throughout your life? He might work through new ways of thinking and understanding but use the exact same words and messages. The same has been true for my patriarchal blessing, as I’m sure it has been for your own blessing.

In the October 2010 general conference, Sister Rosemary M. Wixom, the Primary general president, told about a family with little kids that took three and a half years to read the Book of Mormon. My family and I decided to do the same thing. My parents helped me and my sister and brother say the words in the Book of Mormon. It took us three years to finish reading the Book of Mormon too, and when we finished, I could read all the words by myself.
When we started reading it, we lived in Recife, Brazil, where we read it for one year. Then we moved to Washington, D.C., and read it for another year. Finally we moved to Taipei, Taiwan, where we read it for one more year until we finally finished it.
I like to act out Book of Mormon stories because it’s a fun way to learn about what happened in the book. One of my favorite stories is when Abinadi taught the gospel to King Noah, and Alma had the courage to escape from King Noah to preach the gospel and baptize people into the Church. I like that story because I was baptized while we were reading the Book of Mormon as a family.

As one of the best center-forwards for his age, this ox-strong young man is said to have the ability to score from anywhere. Surprisingly, watching football (soccer) didn’t interest David when he was young. “My older brothers had to push me into playing with them to make up the numbers,” he remembers.

But by the age of 11, David’s talents for the sport were obvious. Selected as the best player in his school, David was chosen to play for his hometown of Bolton. As one of the best players for Bolton, he was picked by scouts to play for Oldham Athletic. When his four-year contract with Oldham ended, Manchester United couldn’t wait to snatch him up.

As the only Latter-day Saint on the team, he has the opportunity of raising his standards high. “The other players respect me for my beliefs. They don’t tease me about my social life when I don’t follow them to the pubs and booze-ups. They know that I don’t drink and respect that decision.”

In order to keep his testimony strong, David actively attends church each Sunday and weekday activities. “I’ve just been set apart as a stake missionary, and I serve as a home teacher,” he says. His work as a stake missionary should have a positive effect on those in the Manchester area—many of whom follow Manchester United and may recognize David.

The Church plays an important role in my life,” David says. “Participating in seminary helped build my testimony growing up.” Arising at 6:00 A.M. daily, David studied early-morning seminary for four years. His mother, who has taught seminary for 13 years, taught his older brothers with him.

“My brothers set good examples and uplift me,” says David. The strong bond that is so obvious between the Brown brothers likely results from sharing the same room growing up. They wrestle and tease each other as brothers do, but their teamwork is apparent. They care for each other and desire to see each other succeed. One by one, his three older brothers have left to serve missions: Bryce to Oklahoma, Gary to London, England, and Paul to Leeds, England. As each brother graduated from seminary and left to serve a mission, the class became smaller. By his final year of seminary, David was the only student in his mother’s class. However, it didn’t stop him. He knew the importance of grounding his testimony firmly in the scriptures.

As his teacher and mother, Sister Brown has seen David’s testimony develop. “He’s got courage to live the gospel no matter what anyone else says,” she declares.

A favorite scripture that keeps David strong in the face of adversity is Doctrine and Covenants 82:10 [D&C 82:10]: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.” David says, “I know that when I apply this in my life, everything else will fall into place.”

An area in which he has put the Lord first is in Sunday matches. Though football tournaments are often scheduled on Sundays, David decided at the age of 11 that he wouldn’t play on the Sabbath. His coach and manager respected him for this decision and worked around it with him. David relates how the Lord blessed him for his obedience. “In England, matches are often postponed because of bad weather. At the end of one season, all the Sunday matches that had been deferred were played midweek instead. I was able to play in all six games—and scored thirty-two goals.” This earned him the title of top scorer for the season and a reputation as “the boy who never plays on a Sunday.”

David enjoys spending the little free time he has relaxing at home with his parents and brothers. He says, “My best friends are my brothers.” They are all close in age: Bryce is 25, Gary is 22, Paul is 21, David is 18, and Stephen is 15. With no other priesthood holders between the ages of 15 and 20 in their ward, they encourage each other to be active in the gospel.

David finds a good balance between church and football. A key to success is hard work. His mum recalls how independent David wished to be as a boy. “He has always been a worker,” she says. “Whether it was homework or seminary booklets, he would just get on with it without being nagged. David coined the phrase in our house: ‘I’ll do it on me own,’ for which we always tease him. David has the ability to work hard at whatever he does.”

For others who are striving for success in their chosen careers, David offers the following advice: “Try hard in anything you want to do, and always put the Lord first.” His determination to be a star football player has set him on a course for greatness. He wants to develop the athletic talents he’s been given. By following the examples set by his brothers, parents, and team members, David will keep his eyes focused on his goals—both spiritual and physical.

He will do what he does best, stay on the ball.

“Will you conduct the flag ceremony at the Blue and Gold Banquet, Kevin?” asked Sister Sandberg, the Cub Scout den leader.
Kevin chewed on his lower lip and lowered his gaze. “I—I d-d-don’t kn-know.”
Someone snickered. Kevin studied his shoelaces miserably, wishing that he could sink into the floor.
“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “You think about it and let me know at our next meeting.”
Kevin nodded.
“Let’s start making our invitations,” Sister Sandberg said. She handed out construction paper, scissors, and markers.
When Kevin got home that evening, he told his parents about the den leader’s request. “I d-don’t think I c-c-can do it,” he said.
His parents exchanged concerned glances. “I think Sister Sandberg’s suggestion to think about it this week is a good one,” Father said at last. “We’ll be happy with whatever you choose.”
Kevin did little else but think about it. He wanted to lead the flag ceremony. He loved hearing the Pledge of Allegiance. He could even say it—if he was by himself and taking his time. But he couldn’t lead a big group of people in saying it, could he?
During that week, Kevin prayed about it every night. The answer he received was clear: You can do it.
At the next den meeting, he told Sister Sandberg that he wanted to lead the flag ceremony.
“Good!” she gave him a quick hug. “I’m proud of your decision, Kevin.”
Kevin spent every moment he could practicing. He also asked his speech therapist at school to help him. They went over the words slowly and carefully until he felt confident saying them. By the night of the Blue and Gold Banquet, Kevin figured he had rehearsed at least a zillion times. He smiled, thinking that he could probably say the Pledge of Allegiance backward. Now, if only I can say it without stuttering, he told himself. That’s all that matters.
He knelt by his bed and prayed once more. When he rose from his knees, a warm feeling settled in his heart. He could do it! He knew he could! Heavenly Father wouldn’t let him down. He was smiling as he ran down the stairs.
“Are you ready to go, M-Mom?” he asked. “I d-don’t want to b-be late.”
His mother looked up from where she was helping his little sister zip up her coat. “You look happy.”
“I am,” he said. “T-Tonight is going to be awesome!”
“Just remember to take your time,” Mother said while straightening the yellow kerchief around his neck. “It doesn’t matter if you have to start over.”
“I won’t have to,” Kevin predicted. “I’ve p-prayed about it, and I’m sure that everything’s g-going to be all right.”
Kevin’s father walked into the kitchen. He hugged Kevin. “Good luck, son. We love you.”
“I know.” Kevin returned the hug, then hugged his mother and sister.
He didn’t eat much of the dinner at the banquet, even though he usually liked hot dogs and potato salad. He kept thinking about his part in the program. The warm feeling he’d received after his prayer had stayed with him.
Then the dinner was over, and the Cubmaster introduced Kevin and sat down.
Kevin stood and walked slowly to the stand. He wiped his wet palms against his pants. “W-Will …” He looked out at the audience with horrified eyes. He took a deep breath and started again. “W-W-Will …”
He saw his mother clasp her hands tightly in her lap. He knew she was silently praying for him. He tried again, and again the words stuck to his lips, refusing to come out. Why did it have to happen now? He’d worked so hard, practiced so long! In his prayer, he’d had a strong feeling that everything would be all right. And now he was stuttering worse than ever!
Eric got up and started forward, followed by David and Hyrum. Soon all the Cub Scouts except those carrying the flag were standing beside Kevin.
Eric slipped his arm around Kevin’s shoulders. “It’s all right,” he whispered.
Kevin cleared his throat. “W-Will the audience p-please stand?” He paused while the color guard posted the colors. “P-Please repeat the Pledge of Allegiance.”
The audience started reciting the words. “I pledge allegiance to the flag …”
Kevin faltered once or twice, but his friends were there, encouraging him. When he took his seat, Sister Sandberg gave his shoulder a squeeze and smiled at him. He smiled back at her.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. He’d done it! He’d stood before a group of people and led them in the Pledge of Allegiance.
Before climbing into bed that night, Kevin knelt beside it and folded his arms. His prayer had been answered—not in the way he’d prayed for, but in a very special way, and he was eager to thank Heavenly Father for helping him.

One day when I was 13, we sang “True to the Faith” (Hymns, no. 254) in sacrament meeting, and I thought it was just about the coolest hymn I had ever heard. I thought, Hey, I remember how to play the piano—sort of. At least I remember what a piano is. I convinced myself that, based on what I knew about piano playing, I could learn to play “True to the Faith.”
The only problem was that I didn’t realize “True to the Faith” is also a very difficult hymn to play. It’s written in a key with just one sharp, but lots of extra sharps and flats are thrown in here and there. After six months of practice I learned it, and I was on my way to being a pianist.
I continued with the piano over the next few years and found myself getting better. Heavenly Father increased my abilities, and I improved in sight-reading, improvising, and other related skills. My mother taught me chord theory and some other useful information. I frequently accompanied soloists and was the pianist for priesthood and Sunday School.
In college I played for sacrament meeting in my student ward and also began to create some arrangements of hymns for Christmas and Easter. At this point in my life I was playing the piano a lot.
During all this I received lots of praise. When I was still learning, members of my home ward would encourage me, telling me how well I was doing. Now people would compliment me on my prelude and postlude music, and my rendition of “Called to Serve” (Hymns, no. 249) always drew a few comments. I tried to acknowledge the Lord’s hand in my abilities and not let it go to my head. But sometimes I liked the praise and would do something snazzy with my playing to ensure that I received compliments.
When it came time for my mission I had my father give me a priesthood blessing. Before the blessing, he asked if there was anything in particular I was worried about. I told him I was a little concerned that if I didn’t have much chance to play the piano and write, and all the other things I enjoyed doing, when I came home I would be too rusty. Considering I hoped to make my living doing some of these things, my ability to do them was of major concern to me.
My father gave me a wonderful blessing. In the blessing I was told that while it’s true we need to exercise our talents or lose them, that rule doesn’t apply to missionaries; if I served faithfully, even if I never used my talents once in those two years, when I came home my abilities wouldn’t have diminished but would have increased. What a promise.
I didn’t have much chance to play while I was in the MTC until the night before I left. Those from my branch who were leaving had a meeting together with the branch president for some final words of advice. There were many tears and tender feelings. And I was asked to play the closing hymn, “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152). This stirred up more emotions and made the Spirit even stronger.
After the closing prayer, which built upon the Spirit we already felt, I played some quiet postlude music as people talked and began to filter out. I played “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2) very softly on the upper keys. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes just believing in the words of the song you’re playing, and having the Spirit with you, causes you to play so that the people listening feel what you’re feeling. You can actually express your emotions through the way you play the song. It doesn’t always happen (at least not to me), but it happened this time. I really felt what I was playing, and I really wanted to convey a message by the way I played it.
As I played, I noticed that someone was behind me watching and listening. I finished the hymn and quickly glanced to see who it was. It was Elder Smith, someone I didn’t know very well. He was standing there, crying.
He had already felt the Spirit during the meeting, like the rest of us, and now the music was helping to intensify it. So I kept playing.
That’s when it struck me. For perhaps the first time, I was playing the piano, not for my own enjoyment and not to receive praise, but to help someone feel the Spirit. I actually, truly wanted to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands and serve him. In this case, the best way I could serve him was to help convey the Spirit to one of his children through music.

As an undergraduate, I was assigned to read Walt Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” As I read the somewhat lengthy poem (those of you who have read Whitman know he can get a bit verbose), I realized that while I only understood about a third of the poem, I was enthralled with the language, the unique arrangement of words. And in my excitement, I felt in a way that I had never felt before that my Savior was reading alongside me, rejoicing in the words that I was rejoicing in.

I believe that both God and His Son are poets, but in this instance, it was less a matter of them loving poetry and more a matter that we were loving the experience together. In this relationship building moment, I learned that God and Christ cared about my fascination with words. Since then, on more than a few occasions, I have felt their pleasure as I read and write.

In family home evenings or in Sunday School, we would practice lines that would help us stand up to peer pressure. I couldn’t wait to use these lines. For example, I imagined hanging out with my friends. Someone would pull out some alcohol and pass it around. The beer can would be handed to me, and all eyes would be looking in my direction. The pressure would mount. I would stand up and say, “No! I am a Mormon, and I don’t drink!” All the kids would be in awe. No amount of their persuasion would convince me. Soon the party would disperse, and someone special in the crowd would tell me I had impressed him so much with my firm stance that he wanted to learn more about my church. Angels would sing praises, and I would be filled with light.