Gospel Story Finder

As long as I can remember I have always searched for God. I have never just believed in the possibility of a God. I knew that he existed. I knew that he had to be a person and not some vague, undefined spirit. But I had trouble trying to imagine what he looked like. My impression was of a stately old gentleman, with white curly hair and a beard, a friendly face and sparkling blue eyes. He lived among the stars, which, as a child, I assumed were the lights in his living room.
Based on the devotional cards I received from my local minister, I had an understanding of what His son, Jesus Christ, looked like. The Savior was depicted as a handsome man with wavy brown hair, and big, bright eyes. He was shown pointing with a slim, pierced hand to the cruel wound in his side, inflicted by a cowardly Roman guard. Through his white robe could be seen the red glow of his loving heart.
But how did I make contact with God and the Savior? I recognized that the way I lived was not the best introduction to them. I did almost everything the Lord had specifically prohibited.
The years passed and I married a wonderful woman, and we had responsive and loving children. We were richly blessed in the material things of life and in good health. But more and more I felt bitter self-reproach because of the sinful life I had led and because I showed the Lord so little thankfulness.
One night I couldn’t stand the feeling any more. I went to a secluded place and poured my heart out to the Lord. I pleaded for forgiveness and for guidance to know which path to take. My problem was that I knew which path to take, but I didn’t have the strength to completely walk that path.
I had tried walking the path now and then. For example, I had read the Bible, prayed in my own way, investigated several religious organizations, and had often listened to a group of gospel workers who used to preach on the street corner.
The leader of the group, a sincere person, had advised me to come to Jesus and believe in Him. “That’s all you have to do” he had said. “His blood will save you and will cleanse you from all your sins.”
That seemed too easy to me. I felt that I couldn’t come before the Lord stained with sin. First, I had to be completely clean and then not sin any more. And that was what was hard for me because I didn’t know how to do it.
However, after that prayer I tried very hard to become “friends” with God. For instance, after reading about tithing in Malachi 3:8–10 [Mal. 3:8–10], I started paying a tenth of my income to non-profit charitable organizations.
I tried to bring about a change in my behavior. I tried to be honest and not tell a lie. I tried to stop swearing and using bad language. And some unusual occurrences made me start living a more healthy life. When I was having a drink, the alcohol suddenly tasted like muddy water. When I drank coffee I felt sick. Tea gave me indigestion. My addiction to smoking a pipe ended when I had a vivid dream of a dirty brown substance going through my pipe into my mouth and throat.
Following these occurrences, I happened to be looking through a private library when I came across the Book of Mormon. Out of curiosity I began to read it, and I was very excited. Unfortunately I wasn’t a member of the library and couldn’t take the book home.
But that was not to be my only contact with the book. Fourteen days later, I met two young men with American accents. One of them asked if I believed in Jesus Christ. I said no, because I didn’t believe, I knew that He existed. He took a book from his briefcase and asked me if I wanted to read it. Much to my surprise it was the Book of Mormon!
I took the book home where I was forced to rest in bed because of a sudden attack of influenza. I used the time to read the Book of Mormon. When I got to 2 Nephi chapters 31 and 32 [2 Ne. 31–32] I found what I had been searching for for so long. There I learned of repentance and baptism as the gate to the strait and narrow path, of keeping the commandments, and of the Holy Ghost as a companion to help us. As I read those chapters I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I knew that if it was the last thing I did in my life I had to be baptized. But, I thought, what if the influenza killed me before I could be baptized? If I had to, I decided, I would ask the young men to baptize me at home in my bathtub.
Frantically I looked for the address of the missionaries, but couldn’t find it. The only thing I knew was that the Church had a small building somewhere in the neighborhood.
My good health quickly returned, and on a beautiful spring morning two Elders were astonished when I approached them with a Book of Mormon in my hand urging them to baptize me as soon as possible. In an interview, they discovered that I already met all the conditions of faith, repentance, paying tithing, and keeping the Word of Wisdom.
So on 18 May 1977, I was baptized and became a member of Christ’s true church. In August of that year, despite some initial doubts, my wife was baptized.
My conversion and baptism was not a matter of chance. I know for sure that the Lord led me to His church. And I know that the Book of Mormon was the capstone of my conversion. Reading it led me to the strait and narrow path which I gladly walk.

Angelo Scarpulla started his theological studies in his native Italy when he was 10. He eventually became a priest and served his church with devotion. At a certain point his faith started to waver, and he sought and received opportunities for further study. The more he studied, however, the more concerned he became. What he read and felt convinced him that there had been a general apostasy from the true doctrine taught by Jesus and the early Apostles. Angelo searched for God’s true religion in various faiths but was left unsatisfied for many years.
One day he encountered two members of the Church who were helping the missionaries find more people to teach. He felt drawn to them and joyfully listened to their message. Angelo willingly accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon.
That evening he started reading the book. He felt overcome with joy. Through the Spirit, God gave Angelo an inner assurance that in the Book of Mormon he would find the truth for which he had been seeking for many years. Sweet feelings flooded through him. What he read and what he learned from the missionaries confirmed his conclusion that there had been a general apostasy, but he also learned that God’s true Church had been restored to the earth. A short while later, Angelo was baptized into the Church. When I first met him, he was the president of the Rimini Branch of our Church in Italy.

During the semester I have been teaching a missionary preparation class, the Religion 130 course, on campus. Three or four weeks ago, I assigned the class members a project involving sacrifice and obedience, and I asked them to identify in their own lives areas needing improvement. I asked that they define what they would sacrifice to improve, how they would sacrifice, and when, specifically, they would sacrifice; and yesterday in our class we had a report. I just want to give you the results of an experience as presented by one of the young men. He said, “I work at a grocery store and I realized that I hadn’t been as diligent as I should be; I hadn’t been quite the employee that I ought to have been. I decided to sacrifice and come a little early, work more quickly, get my shelves stocked, and get things cleaned up.” He said, “Within two weeks I had a raise and a promotion. Perhaps the raise and the promotion would have come anyway, but I think not.”

This same young man had decided in regard to his classes that he needed to do something about his assignment of three term papers. He decided that he would spend four extra hours a week working on those term papers and watch television just a little less. He said yesterday, “I submitted two of those reports two weeks early and received A’s on both of them.” The other report he will submit this week. I would suggest, brothers and sisters, that those results were not accidental. He did indeed sacrifice, in what seems to be a very mundane or simple way, yet almost immediately blessings came to him.

When they joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my friend and her husband joyfully learned family relationships need not be “until death do you part.” In the house of the Lord, families can be united eternally (sealed).

But my friend did not want to be sealed to her father. “He was not a nice husband to my mother. He was not a nice dad to his children,” she said. “My dad will have to wait. I do not have any desire to do his temple work and be sealed with him in eternity.”

For a year, she fasted, prayed, spoke a lot with the Lord about her father. Finally, she was ready. Her father’s temple work was completed. Later, she said, “In my sleep my dad appeared to me in a dream, all dressed in white. He had changed. He said, ‘Look at me. I am all clean. Thank you for doing the work for me in the temple.’” Her father added, “Get up and go back to the temple; your brother is waiting to be baptized.”

My friend says, “My ancestors and those that have passed on are eagerly waiting for their work to be done.”

“As for me,” she says, “the temple is a place of healing, learning, and acknowledging the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”

Harry was fighting in a torrent of rain and blood one night on New Guinea during World War II. Shrapnel from enemy mortar shells ripped his stomach apart, and he lay dying in a muddy foxhole. As he pled with God to send a rescue crew, he closed his eyes and a dreamlike picture of his sweetheart flooded his mind’s eye. The image of returning to her and raising a family together gave him the will to live until a British officer named Abel scooped him onto a stretcher. Harry returned home to marry the girl of his dream, and soon they joined the Church. Fifty years later, their posterity is among the strength of the Australia Devonport Stake. Harry was kept alive—physically and spiritually—by his dream of family love.

May I share with you this afternoon an experience that happened to a young couple who were members of the Church in Japan. They wished to be married, and as is the custom in Japan, they sought permission from their nonmember parents for the marriage to be performed. The boy’s parents refused to give permission. With concern and disappointment, the young couple prayerfully sought ways to fill their lives with meaningful Church activities and trusted that permission would be forthcoming later.
At this time Church members were planning a trip to the Hawaii Temple, and much emphasis was made and was being placed on the importance of genealogical research. So the couple joined with others in seeking out their ancestors and in planning to have the temple work done for them. The girl searched diligently through shrines, cemeteries, and government record offices, and was able to gather seventy-seven names. The boy’s uncle, who was a respected and influential member of the family, heard of this and was deeply impressed with and interested in her work. He noted the intense devotion of the girl to honoring her ancestors and suggested that such a young lady would be a good wife for his nephew. Permission was granted for the young people to be married, and the marriage was performed. Later they were sealed in the Hawaii Temple.
It is a Japanese tradition that families gather together for special holidays in January and August. As this young couple joined their family members on these special occasions, they displayed their book of remembrance, and much interest was generated in their work and in the reasons for it. They discussed with those relatives assembled their ancestral lines and the importance of completing the genealogical research. It was difficult for their nonmember families to understand the reasons for a Christian church teaching principles such as “ancestral worship,” for this was a Buddhist teaching and tradition.
Today many young men and women are completing their family group sheets and are teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ to their parents and their relatives by this method. Through genealogical research and through doing temple work for their progenitors, and especially with a temple now becoming available in Tokyo, members can so live that the gospel will yet be embraced by many more in the Orient. This great work has just begun.

The morning sun cast gentle shadows across the courtyard as Joseph pumped water from the well into his bucket. “I’ll take my buckets up to the reservoir first,” he said. “Then I’ll return for yours.”
“I want to empty my own bucket,” five-year-old Beatrice protested.
Joseph shook his head. “It’s too heavy for you to carry up the steps. You’ll spill it.”
“No, I won’t,” she answered, standing as tall as she could.
“All right. But please be careful. If we spill, it will take us longer to fill the reservoir deep enough for my baptism today.”
“I know. I’ll be careful.”
The two started toward one of the houses. There were several other Armenian families living in the courtyard, their homes joined together by thick stone walls. Near one of the walls, stone steps led up to a flat rooftop and a reservoir that fed the courtyard’s fountain. Joseph started up the steps.
“Joseph! Listen! Do you hear the bells?”
“It’s the goats,” Joseph said. “I thought it was about time for the milkman to arrive.”
“Go tell Mother,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure she’ll send you for the milk. She always does.”
Joseph tried not to think about how much he liked fresh goat’s milk. “You go this time,” he said.
“But you love to go.”
“I know, but I can get the milk another day. Today I want to be baptized.”
Beatrice nodded. “I’ll hurry,” she said.
When she was gone, Joseph climbed the rest of the way to the reservoir and emptied his buckets. The water barely covered the bottom of the basin.
“I’ll never finish in time,” he grumbled. But then he remembered something that made him wish he had not complained. His grandfather had been killed by wicked men because he would not deny his belief in Jesus Christ. Joseph was proud of his grandfather, and he knew that filling the reservoir was a very small sacrifice compared to what his grandfather had done. “It will be hard to fill the reservoir,” he told himself. “But like Grandfather, I also believe in Jesus Christ. And I want to be baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. I can do this.”
With renewed determination, Joseph retrieved Beatrice’s bucket, emptied it, then hauled all three buckets back to the well.
Soon after he finished refilling the third bucket, Beatrice returned. “Mother says we can have milk at lunch,” she said.
Joseph almost replied, “I wish I could have some now,” but instead he wiped the sweat from his forehead and started back to the reservoir. Beatrice followed. Back and forth they went until the midday sun shone bright above their heads and their legs felt as heavy as stone pillars.
“Let’s stop for lunch,” Joseph said.
Joseph and Beatrice set down their buckets and headed back to their one-room home. Mother met them at the door. “You two must be hungry,” she said with a tired smile.
“Yes, Mother,” said Beatrice, “but we’re halfway finished.”
“Almost halfway,” Joseph muttered.
“It sounds like you’ve been working hard,” Mother said. She led them to a shady spot near the cooking quarters.
“My arms hurt,” Beatrice complained. “And my hands are sore.”
Joseph looked at his hands. He wasn’t surprised to see blisters forming on the palms. “Beatrice said we could have some milk,” he said.
Mother laughed. “I knew cheese and watermelon wouldn’t satisfy you today,” she said, handing him a full cup.
“I’ve been imagining this moment all morning.” Joseph lifted the cup to his lips and took a long drink.
After lunch, Joseph and Beatrice returned to the well. Again and again they filled their buckets, climbed the steps, poured the water into the reservoir, and trudged back to the well.
Finally, just before the sun began to set behind the western hills, Mother called, “Joseph? Is the reservoir filled?”
“Yes, Mother, we’ve just finished!”
“I knew you could do it,” Mother replied.
Beatrice turned over her bucket and sat on it. “I wish I was old enough to be baptized,” she said.
“I can hardly believe it’s my turn,” Joseph answered. He walked to the edge of the reservoir and dipped his hand into the water. Tiny waves rippled outward. “I’m about to be baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” he thought.
“Joseph?” It was Mother again. “Elder Booth will be here soon. Hurry down so you can get ready.”
“Coming,” he said.
Joseph walked to the steps, then turned and looked at his sister. “Thanks for helping me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You’re welcome,” Beatrice said. “And you can help me when I turn eight!”

Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. The one man between me and the office of general in the British Army became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner.
I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the general, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for 10 years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.
Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and on his desk, I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly, and went out.
I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure.” When I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.
And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have Mutual. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their singing:
“But if, by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
I’ll go where you want me to go.”
(Hymns, no. 270)
I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to Him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

While we do not know for certain what effect the sharing of the magazines and our testimonies had on those individuals or teams, we do know that through competing at college nationals over several years we were able to inspire one young woman who had also felt something from our performances. She was not a member of the Church at that time, but she wanted to come to BYU because of what she had seen the Cougarettes do at competition.

She applied for and was accepted to BYU. That led to her investigation of the Church and her baptism shortly thereafter. She then auditioned for and became a member of the BYU Cougarettes 2013 national championship team—during the year the team won in both jazz and hip-hop for the very first time.

I am so grateful to a loving Heavenly Father who provided a way for us to share a message and our light through our talents.

Elder John B. Dickson, former President of the South America South Area, tells of an area-wide youth service activity that was held several years ago: “The youth of the Comodoro Rivadavia Argentina Stake, in the extreme southern part of Argentina, prepared to paint a 1.25-kilometer beach wall fence. One hundred and fifty youth and their leaders with white paint, buckets, and brushes must have created quite a sight, because when the local radio station heard about the event, they came to investigate. ‘Who are these young people?’ they asked. ‘They are youth from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’ ‘Why are they doing this?’ ‘Well, they just love their community and want to give some voluntary service.’ This information went out to all the radio stations and newspapers in the community.

“These kids knew they were doing something for someone else—taking their minds off themselves as they served others,” says Elder Dickson. “If you multiply that kind of example time and time again—in about 160 stakes throughout the area—all giving service to their communities on the same day, the effect is staggering!”

When I was a young man, I spent summers working on my Uncle Bill’s farm. Each year we would spend weeks getting our old John Deere 95 Hillside Combine in working order to harvest our grain. The 95 Hillside was old even back then; I was pretty sure that the model just before it was pulled by horses. It was a tremendous effort to get the combine ready each season. One year, my uncle was able to purchase a used Massey Ferguson Combine. The Massey Ferguson was still old but newer than the 95 Hillside and it featured a cab, which I was very excited about.

One morning, my uncle asked me to drive up to the field and start cutting grain with the new combine. I was thrilled! As a newly licensed teenager, any excuse to drive, let alone run the combine, was exciting. Upon arriving at the combine, I went through a mental checklist of things my uncle had taught me, and within a few minutes, I was off and running. It was exhilarating until at the top of a hill I heard a loud clang from the engine. I quickly looked around the combine, and gauges and everything seemed to be okay, so I decided to ease the combine off the hill before checking what had happened. By the time I reached the bottom of the hill, however, the combine was overheating. I started to panic. I had once observed my father let an engine run after climbing a hill to help it cool off so I decided not to turn the engine off. While sitting there I realized I was in the middle of a tall growth of grain. My uncle’s warning to never park a hot vehicle in a field pierced my thoughts and escalated my panic. I jumped out of the combine and rolled around on the ground to flatten the grain around the combine. Then I jumped back into the combine praying that the engine had cooled down. It had not. Panicked, I ran back to the pickup and drove to a neighbor’s field to ask for help. When I explained the situation to my neighbor, he just looked at me and said, “Well, did you turn it off?” I didn’t say anything, I just backed away jumped in the pickup, and drove as fast as I could back to the combine. When I arrived, the combine was sputtering and cackling. I quickly turned the engine off. At that moment, I had the thought that I should open the hood and see what had happened to the engine. I opened the hood to discover that the fan pulley had broken. No amount of letting the engine run would have cooled it down. Suddenly the weight of what I had done pressed down on me. For those of you who are unfamiliar with farm economics, losing a combine is a big deal. I was defeated; a wave of emotion hit me as I thought about how I would explain this to my uncle.

As I pulled up to the driveway, my uncle came out to meet me. I took a shaky breath and, with my head down, explained what had happened. I ended with the comment, “I guess you’ll never want me to run your equipment again.” He paused for a moment, looked at me, and said, “Well, you’re a better operator now than you were this morning.” I was taken back. I thought maybe he doesn’t understand how bad it is, but to his credit, he never said anything more about it, even when we had to pull out the old John Deere 95 to finish the harvest.

After that moment my feelings towards my uncle changed. I had always been a good worker; I was obedient and did my duty, but the mercy my uncle had shown to me was beyond my understanding. He could have crushed me in that moment by validating all the negative thoughts I was having about myself—how stupid I had been, how I had known better, how broken I felt inside—but instead he built me up and used this experience to help me grow. After that, I would wake up at 4 AM and get dressed, then lay in bed until I heard his footsteps on the floor above. Then I would race up the stairs to meet him by the door because I never wanted a day to start without him knowing how grateful I was and how much I loved him. My uncle’s mercy had switched my obedience from doing “chores” to working because I loved him.

This experience has helped me contextualize God’s love for me, because if my uncle could forgive me for ruining the combine, then I could start to understand how a loving Heavenly Father could forgive me of my combine big failures. I could start to get a glimpse of His willingness to work with me on the sins that so easily beset me.[3] And while I don’t understand how He could offer up His Only Begotten Son for me,[4] the fact that He did has changed the way I keep His commandments. I pray each day because I never want a day to go by that I don’t express my love for Him. I pour out my heart unto Him in my weakness because I need God in my life. Understanding God’s mercy and love for me, getting a glimpse of what Christ suffered for me, changes my obedience from compliance and duty to love and service. I cleave unto God because I love Him.

A couple of weeks ago, I met astake Young Women president in California who told me that her 81-year-old mother had recently been called to be a Mia Maid adviser. I was so intrigued I gave her mother a call. When Sister Val Baker’s bishop asked to meet with her, she was looking forward to being called as a librarian or ward historian. When he asked her to serve as a Mia Maid adviser to the Young Women, her reaction was, “Are you sure?”
Her bishop solemnly replied, “Sister Baker, make no mistake; this call is from the Lord.”
She said she had no other answer to that except, “Of course.”
I love the inspiration this bishop felt that the four Mia Maids in his ward have much to learn from the wisdom, experience, and lifelong example of this mature sister. And guess whom Sister Baker will go to when she needs help setting up her Facebook page?

After I had served as an elders quorum president, a branch president, and a bishop over a period of five years, we moved to a new ward. My wife was soon called to be the Relief Society president. She went to her first meeting with the bishop while I chased our two youngsters up and down the halls and through the parking lot and cultural hall. I had my first experience with waiting. I waited one and a half hours. When Mary came out of the bishop’s office, I had one boy in my arm and the other by the hand. I didn’t have the courage to say anything, but I just gave her a look that said, “Do you realize you’ve kept me waiting an hour and a half?”

All she did was raise five fingers and say, “Five years.” That is how long she had been waiting for me. Then I began to realize it was going to be my job to support my wife in her calling just as she had supported me in my callings.

My daughter’s funeral was beautiful. There was a lot of laughter mixed with tears, and the Spirit was very much present. My oldest daughter, Victoria, traveled back to Utah from another state. She wrote a song and performed it at the funeral.
I was never approached about the funeral costs except to be informed it was being handled. Within a few weeks the funeral had been paid in full by donations from Church members.

by Shirley F. Berlin
It was the night of the annual basketball game between the “Young Men” and their “Old Men” church leaders in the 30th Ward, Ogden Utah East Stake. In the stake center bleachers, ward members, families, and friends excitedly shouted encouragement to both teams.
Bob Blair of the Old Men had just connected, closing the Young Men’s lead to one point at 16–15, with 4:41 left in the second quarter.
“We’re going to walk away with it—take it from the coach,” Darold Rawson, Sr., of the Young Men said confidently.
The competition had begun five years before when the youth were planning a fund-raising project. They challenged their priesthood leaders to a game of basketball, certain that they could easily beat such out-of-shape old folks. But the Old Men won! A surprised group of Aaronic Priesthood boys immediately planned a comeback. They would have another game next year, and the next, and the next.
Over the years, the boys had grown stronger and taller, and their leaders had grown … well, older. The Young Men had won three times, and their leaders had won twice. This one could be anyone’s game.
Earlier in the evening, the excitement started as the Young Women introduced the players on each team with words from original songs. The Old Wives Cheerleaders waved their pom-poms. Dressed in jeans rolled to mid-calf, with shirts emblazoned with big “O’s”, they were poised for the grand entry of their husbands.
As the Old Men burst energetically through their “We’re the Greatest!” banner, the crowd went wild.
Then, all eyes turned to the opposite corner where the Young Men were eagerly waiting their turn behind the banner reading, “We’re #1.”
Unexpectedly, Zan Treasure casually tore an opening through which the boys stepped with dignity, one at a time. Then Mike Ward ceremoniously placed some steps a few feet from the basket and stood at attention. Suddenly, Jim Berlin streaked past and went up for a spectacular slam dunk. The fans roared as the Young Men sprang into action. Following the tip-off, Darold Rawson, Jr., quickly scored the first point.
Bishop Arlo Ward, who has played in all the games, said, “They’ve been highlights for me. They are an opportunity for the Young Men to really get the best of their leaders. They haven’t always done it, but as they have prepared and developed, they have given us a challenge. The games bring out a closeness that you don’t always get.”
When asked how many practices the Old Men had before the game, Bishop Ward smiled. “Zero. But we’re so good we don’t need any.”
However, his counselor Gary Saunders didn’t sound so confident. He admitted that when the Old Men heard that the game would be played on the large stake center floor instead of the small one in the ward cultural hall, “We decided to play with two teams—one defense and one offense so we wouldn’t have to run up and down that big court.”
The Young Men hadn’t had many more practices than their elders. Term papers, final exams, jobs, and dates interfered. However, some mornings at 5:30, the more eager ones jogged. On moonlit nights they played ball in the driveway of the home of three participating brothers. But even when the boys weren’t actually practicing, they were “psyching up.” In fact, one night after the youth had been boasting in the Elliott Berlin living room, Brother Berlin commented, “There’s enough hot air in here to dry a corn field.” But they won anyway.
All of the original Young Men will be on missions, married, or will have “graduated” to Old Men status by the next game. New loyalties will have to be formed as rivals become teammates. A different group of hopeful young players will challenge their leaders, and an enjoyable tradition will carry on.
Visitor Brenda Gilbertson summarized the feelings of many when she said, “I’m really impressed with your ward. You do such fun things. I can see why your boys stay active.”
Indeed, the 30th Ward surely demonstrates that a ward that plays together stays together.

On a Saturday in January, Amy slowly opened her eyes and stretched in the warmth of her bed. Today was the day: the first weekend after a big snow. Hopping out of bed, she whirled around the room, hummed as she dressed, then skipped into the kitchen and gave her mother a hug.

Mom, returning Amy’s hug, said, “Please set the table. Dad and Roy will be in soon.”

As Amy set the last plate on the table, Dad and Roy hurried through the back door, stomping snow from their boots. “There must be a good eight inches of snow out there,” Dad said, “and probably two feet in the mountains.”

Roy added, “And it looks like there’s more to come.”

When breakfast was over and everything had been cleared away, Dad asked, “Is everything packed and ready?”

“Yes,” Mom answered, pulling a blue and white wool cap over her head. “We’re all ready to go.”

As Dad drove slowly along the back road into the mountains, Amy, unable to contain herself, sang out, “Won’t it be fun! Won’t it just be great fun!”

One final, long, climbing curve brought them deep into the mountains. Off to the right was a snowy bowl-like meadow. The sunlight sparkling on the snow sent rainbows of color glittering into the air.

“It’s so beautiful!” whispered Amy, gazing at the snow-covered pines surrounding the meadow.

Mom whispered too. “It’s glorious! It’s one of Heavenly Father’s designs, and it’s perfect for our special day.”

Roy and Amy tossed handfuls of snow at each other as they ran to help unload the sleds. Then Roy placed their big picnic basket on the sled between Mom and Amy.

“Dad and I will beat you two down,” he challenged as he ran to sit behind his father on the other sled.

The rush of air snatched their happy cries as the sleds sped down the slope, coasting to a stop at the far edge of the meadow.

“First things first,” Mom announced, unloading the basket. Soon a big thermos of hot chocolate and slices of bread and butter were laid out on an old blanket spread on the snowy ground.

Dad, meanwhile, had lit a fire in the large sand-filled metal tub that he and Roy had brought on their sled. As soon as the charcoal was crusted with white ashes, they placed an old grill over the top and set a kettle of chili on it to keep warm while they played in the snow.

Swooping Amy high in his arms, Dad whooped, “Let’s make a snowman!” They all began rolling big balls of snow, and in just a short time they had a huge snowman. Placing eyes of charcoal in the snowman’s head, Roy tossed a handful of snow at Mom and said, “Finish him off.”

Mom pulled all kinds of leftovers from Halloween costumes out of her coat pockets, and soon the snowman was completely outfitted.

The sleds—sometimes with one rider each, sometimes with two—were soon racing each other down the slope.

Later, filled with hot food, the happy family sat around the glowing embers and talked about the fun they’d had. After they’d rested a bit, Mom declared that it was time to play fox and geese. First they stomped out a circle in the snow. Then they tramped the snow down to form paths that cut the circle into quarters. The paths crossed in the center, where they formed the safety circle.

Dad laid claim on being the fox first and warned that the geese had better look out for him. Soon they were all running around the circle, bumping into each other and shrieking happily. After each of them had been the fox several times, they flopped onto the snow and watched as long shadows from the pines crept across the meadow.

It was time to go. They extinguished the charcoal, then headed for the car. Amy turned and waved to the snowman. She was sure that he tipped his head in response. Before snuggling beneath the cozy blankets at bedtime, Amy told Heavenly Father, “Thanks for today. There is nothing as fun as a winter picnic!”

My family moved into the New Brunswick Ward when I was a teenager. Sister Daines took notice of me and often expressed her confidence in my abilities and potential, which inspired me to reach high—higher than I would have without her encouragement. Once, because of a thoughtful and timely warning from her, I avoided a situation that would surely have led to regret. Although she is no longer here, Anna Daines’s influence continues to be felt and reflected in the lives of her descendants and countless others, myself included.

Photographs courtesy of the Lewis family and by Richard M. Romney and Donal Pearce
Blake Lewis, 17, was among the leaders at the Utah 6A state high school cross-country championships, and his best friend and teammate, Sean Rausch, 18, was right behind him. “Our team, Riverton, had never won state before, and we were going for it,” Sean says.
The race was intense, but Riverton was doing well. With only 200 meters (220 yards) left in the three-mile race, the first runners were about to leave the hills and grass behind, make a sharp turn, and enter the stadium where they would sprint to the finish.
Then, Blake fell. Not from a trip or a stumble. He collapsed. The tibia bone in his lower leg had snapped.
“I came around a corner and saw Blake lying on the ground, holding his leg and screaming in pain,” Sean remembers.
Even though Sean was a senior and this was his last chance to race at state, he didn’t hesitate. “I had no thought of leaving Blake and just finishing the race,” he says. “He wanted to finish and so did I, and I was ready to help him the whole way. So, I put him on my back and carried him to the finish line.”
Two hundred meters is a long way to carry somebody that’s your same height and weight. “I wanted to comfort him,” Sean says. “So, I kept reminding him of the years we’d been running together, of the 1,250 miles (2,012 km) we’d run together over the summer.”
In between Blake’s groans, Sean kept repeating, “We’re a team, and we’re a family.” An official rushed up to tell them giving assistance to another runner wasn’t allowed, but Sean said it didn’t matter. “We’re in this together,” he said, “and we’re going to finish it together.” The official disqualified them both, but allowed them to continue.
At the end of their ordeal, Sean gently set Blake down so that he could step—actually, hop—over the finish line. Then Blake, with help, climbed into an ambulance.
The Riverton men’s team took third place as a team, but they didn’t celebrate. Instead, they kneeled and prayed for Blake. And when the women’s team found out about Blake, they did the same.
“I was in the hospital when I heard they had prayed for me,” Blake said. “That was so emotional, that my teammates would do that for me.”
“We prayed that Blake would be all right, and that nothing too serious would result,” Sean says. And he believes the prayer was answered. “The doctor said the injury could have been a lot worse if Blake had tried to finish the race on his own.”
“And the doctor told my mom it was a miracle that it was a clean break, lined up so straight that no surgery was necessary,” Blake says. “Otherwise they would have placed a metal rod in my leg, and running would have become painful.”
Websites, TV stations, and newspapers across the USA featured accounts of Sean carrying Blake to the finish line. A social media video went viral, and the story popped up in Asia, Australia, South America, and Europe.
“I think our story became popular because people like to be reminded there’s still good in the world,” Blake says. Sean agrees: “It’s nice to see that a simple act of kindness can touch so many lives.”
The local community also celebrated Sean’s good deed. At Riverton’s annual Veteran’s Day celebration, which features a 5K and a one-mile run, Sean was recognized as a “local hero,” and Blake was invited to sound the horn to start the race.
In a short speech, Sean said, “I’m not a hero. I was just taking care of my brother.”
Both young men feel their experience reinforced gospel principles to them.
“We all have hardships in our lives,” Blake says. “But just like Sean was there for me, the Savior is there for us. If we let Him, He’ll pick us up and help us finish.”
“If any one of us on the team went down,” Sean says, “the rest of the team would be there for him.” The same is true for his priesthood quorum. “We’re always there as a team, serving together. For Mutual, Church meetings, sacrament, and any service that anybody needs, we’re always trying to help and support each other.”
“When we run, we always set goals, then train to meet those goals,” Blake said. “If you don’t train, you’re not going to get better. Our ultimate eternal goal is to have eternal life and to return to our Heavenly Father. So, we have spiritual goals, and we train through prayer, scripture study, service, staying worthy, repentance—so that we can make it to the spiritual finish line.”

By age nineteen, she had saved enough money to go to Chicago, Illinois, where she studied at the Chicago Art Institute under the great John Vanderpoel. Several times during her three-year course she had to go home to earn more money by working in the fields or in the classroom. But Minerva always returned to her studies. With characteristic confidence, Minerva once confronted Mr. Vanderpoel, asking why he criticized her work so harshly when so many classmates were doing much poorer work. She later recalled, “I shall never forget the disappointment on the man’s face when he answered in a choked voice, ‘Can it be possible you do not understand; those other students are not worth it, they will eventually leave school, but you—ah, there is no end’” (“Miss Kohlhepp’s Own Story,” Pocatello, Idaho, 1917).
By 1912, she had finished her course at the Art Institute and returned west to earn more money. During this period she was courted by two young men—calling off a wedding with one wealthy suitor when she learned that he didn’t want to be married in a Mormon church. The other young man, not a Church member either (she knew no Latter-day Saint young men), was Herman Teichert. Herman was a gentle cowboy whose favorite activity was chasing wild horses on the desert by moonlight. In April 1915, however, she left Herman behind, telling him to marry someone else, and went to the Art Students’ League in New York City.

I was pondering this powerful message this past Saturday morning on the eve of Easter as I drove to the Northshore to watch the surfing action at pipeline. I pulled off the road at Kahuku and decided I would try to introduce myself to the Catholic priest at the St. Roch Church whose name is Father Jun Pastrano. He came out dressed in shorts and a casual shirt as I was and we had a wonderful visit on his porch. I told him why I was in town and a few highlights of this Kalaupapa devotional. After leaving him with books I had written on the subject, I then went a little ways down the road and knocked on the door of the United Methodist minister’s house and introduced myself to Pastor Tevita Maile and his wife. Pastor Maile was preparing his Easter sermon, but still made time for me. I found out we shared a past common friend in Viliami Afiaki and that he also knew Viliami Tolutau. We had a nice visit together.

The following morning as Easter dawned, I went to the St. Roch Church and arrived about the same time that Father Pastrano did. He soon told a prisoner that I was a bishop and also informed me that he had talked about the journey to Kalaupapa in his Saturday evening mass the night before. I was soon asked to introduce myself to the congregation along with other visitors and was edified by the hymns we sang together, which included “All Creatures of our God and King,” written by St. Francis of Assii eight hundred years ago.

I also visited the United Methodist Church and was asked to introduce myself by Pastor Tevita Maile. After I finished, he told the congregation: “Fred is giving a inter-faith lecture at BYU-Hawaii and all are invited to attend. He believes we all worship the same God.” We then sang the hymn written by the Methodist Christian missionary, Charles Wesley which was the same hymn I sang that day with the Saints of the Laie Second Ward, “Christ the Lord is Risen Today,” written before the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was organized in 1830.

As I have pondered over these hymns written by inspired men before the dawn of the Restoration with my Catholic and Methodist brothers and sisters, I was again reminded of the Latin maxim which I again invite you to reflect upon: “In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty, and in all things charity.”