Gospel Story Finder

While I served as a bishop, I watched a young man in my ward progress as a deacon, teacher, and priest. He then prepared to serve a mission. He was shy and quiet, and he came from a family that wasn’t very active in the gospel.
The Sunday he was going to speak before leaving on his mission, I asked if his talk was prepared.
“Yes,” he said. He opened a manila folder and showed me his talk.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “But I want to do an experiment. Will you speak from your heart instead?”
“You want me to do what?” he said.
“I trust you,” I said. “Just speak from your heart. I know you will do great things in this meeting. I’ll be right next to you if you need me.”
He gave me his talk. I’ll never forget how nervous he was as the other speakers spoke before him. But when it came time for him to speak, he got up and gave a powerful message. The whole congregation was captured by this shy boy who had become a spokesman for the Lord.
The real miracle came after the meeting. Three of his friends who had previously told me they weren’t going to serve missions came up to me with tear-filled eyes. Each of them said, “I want to go on a mission.” This young man’s testimony convinced them that they needed to serve. All three of them served successful missions. This young man is now a father and is still engaged in the gospel of Jesus Christ. He has also helped bring many members of his family back into the Church.

I sit at the sewing machine and feed thread onto seams of flannel. Child-print patterns in soft colors decorate the tops, and coordinating colors form the backs of the baby receiving blankets I’m sewing.
Our ward Relief Society assembles newborn kits for poverty and disaster areas. I’m an amateur seamstress, but I’m committed to participate. I enjoy choosing fabric for the project and cutting out blanket-sized squares.
I put right sides of the fabric together, sew around the edges, and leave an area open to turn the blanket right side out. Then I stitch along the edges, clip the corners, turn the blanket so that the colorful sides are on the outside, and stitch up the open area.
I sew along the top of the edges to reinforce the seams. I ease the fabric into place and take off at a brisk pace. As I rush to finish so I can resume household duties, a thought strikes me: “What if I were sewing this blanket for baby Jesus?”
With that thought, I slow down and take great care to straighten the seams. But even with care, the stitching doesn’t run straight.
Next I sew a 10-inch (25 cm) square in the center to secure the front to the back. I make a heavy paper template, center it on the blanket, and lightly mark around it. I put the fabric in place, ease down the needle, and carefully sew.
When I’m done, I clip the threads and pull out the finished blanket. It isn’t square—it’s a cross between a trapezoid and a parallelogram.
I set the blanket aside, pull out fresh flannel, and start again—taking greater pains for this gift worthy of Deity. But even with the extra effort, the results are only slightly better. Each blanket I sew is imperfect.
I feel that I can’t take any of the blankets to the collection site, at least not this year. I’ll keep practicing, and perhaps someday I can make a contribution.
Then another thought floats through my mind: “If you wait until your sewing is perfect, the Christ child will be in Egypt.”
I understand. The opportunity for service would be gone. The Savior accepts our offerings when we use our best efforts, imperfect though they may be. I know that a newborn, wrapped in a soft, clean blanket, would not refuse to sleep because the corners aren’t square.
As I contemplate whether my efforts will make a dent in worldwide needs, Christ’s counsel comes to mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
So I continue sewing blankets, working to make them as attractive as I can. I know there is a need now, not some vague time in the future when I can sew them perfectly.

As the tears wet her nightgown, she remembered once when she saw the Prophet cry. It had happened the year before, when Mary Ann’s family was returning from England. Many converts came with them on the boat, and they were anxious to see Joseph Smith.

“I’ll know him immediately,” one man said. Others agreed that they, too, would be able to pick him out, even in a multitude.

Mary Ann told the converts how noble and grand the Prophet looked on his horse at the head of the Nauvoo Legion. She told them how she had watched him preach to the people in the Kirtland Temple, and to the Indians in the grove at Nauvoo.

Mary Ann still remembered how the steamboat pushed through large, floating blocks of ice on the Mississippi River as it approached the city of Nauvoo. At the landing there was a large group of people waiting to welcome the company of travelers. Right away, Mary Ann noticed the Prophet. He came on the boat, into their cabin, and embraced Parley Pratt. Then he welcomed each family member in turn.

The Prophet was a very big man. Six foot, her father had said. Mary Ann’s head came just above his belt buckle, but he leaned over so he could look into her eyes and shake her hand. Then he sat down and took her little brother on his knees.

“Well, well, Brother Parley, you have returned, bringing your sheaves with you.” He hugged little Parley and Nathan, and the tears filled his clear blue eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Mary Ann had discovered that grown folk sometimes cry when they’re filled with joy, so she knew it was just his happiness spilling over.

Mary Ann recalled how Father had teased the Prophet when he saw the tears.

“Brother Smith, if you feel so bad about our coming home, I guess we’ll have to go back again.”

After that, everyone laughed, the Prophet most of all. Then he said, “Brother Parley, bring your folks up to my house.” Mary Ann remembered how as they walked up the hill with the Prophet, she had tried to match her step with his.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack, who lived with his mother in a small village. They were very poor, and the mother earned their living by spinning. But Jack was so lazy that he would do nothing but bask in the sun in hot weather and sit by the hearth in cold weather. The townspeople called him Lazy Jack.
One day Jack’s mother came to the end of her patience. She told Jack that if he did not begin to work for his porridge, she would turn him out on his own.
Jack bestirred himself and hired out the next day to a neighboring farmer. However, when the day’s work was done and he was on his way home, he dropped his day’s pay while passing over a brook.
“You stupid boy,” said his mother, “you should have put it in your pocket.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
On Wednesday Jack hired out to a cowkeeper, who gave him a jar of milk for his day’s work. Jack took the jar and put it into the large pocket of his jacket. But the milk was spilled long before he got home.
“Dear me!” said his mother, “you should have carried it on your head.”
“I’ll do so next time,” said Jack.
On Thursday Jack hired out to another farmer, who agreed to give him a cream cheese for his services. In the evening Jack took the cheese and went home with it on his head. By the time he got there it had melted and become matted in his hair.
“You really are a numbskull!” his mother scolded. “You should have carried it very carefully in your hands.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
On Friday Lazy Jack went to town and hired out to a baker, who gave him nothing for his work but a large tomcat. Jack took the cat and began carrying it very carefully in his hands. But in a short time the animal scratched and fought so much that the simpleton had to let it go.
When he got home, his mother cried, “You silly fellow, you should have tied it with a string and walked it along after you.”
“I’ll do so next time,” Jack promised.
On Saturday Jack hired out to a butcher, who rewarded him for his work with a shoulder of mutton. Jack took the mutton, tied it to a string, and trailed it along after him in the dirt. By the time he arrived home, the meat was completely ruined.
Quite out of patience Jack’s mother exclaimed, “You ninnyhammer! You should have carried it on your shoulder.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
“Now we’ll have to have cabbage for Sunday dinner again,” she complained.
The following Monday Lazy Jack hired out to a cattleman, who gave him an old donkey as his wages. Jack found that it wasn’t easy to hoist the donkey onto his shoulders, but at last he was able to do so, and began walking slowly home with his prize.
Now it happened that in the course of his journey home each evening Jack passed the house of a certain rich man and his daughter. The girl had been unable to speak from birth and had never laughed aloud. The doctors said she would never speak until somebody made her laugh. However, when she saw Jack with the donkey on his back and its legs sticking up in the air, the sight was so comical that she burst into a great fit of laughter. Her father was overjoyed and promised her to Lazy Jack in marriage.
Lazy Jack became a rich gentleman, living in a large house with his new wife. And his mother lived with them in great comfort and happiness.

When we observe the covenants we make at the altar of sacrifice, we discover hidden reservoirs of strength. I once said in exasperation to my wife, Marie, “The Lord placed Adam and Eve on the earth as full-grown people. Why couldn’t he have done that with this boy of ours, the one with the freckles and the unruly hair?” She replied, “The Lord gave us that child to make Christians out of us.”
One night Marie exhausted herself for hours encouraging that child to finish a school assignment to build his own diorama of a Native American village on a cookie sheet. It was a test no hireling would have endured. At first he fought her efforts, but by bedtime, I saw him lay “his” diorama proudly on a counter. He started for his bed, then turned around, raced back across the room, and hugged his mother, grinning with his fourth-grade teeth. Later I asked Marie in complete awe, “How did you do it?” She said, “I just made up my mind that I couldn’t leave him, no matter what.” Then she added, “I didn’t know I had it in me.” She discovered deep, internal wellsprings of compassion because the bonds of her covenants gave her strength to lay down her life for her sheep, even an hour at a time.

Laurels from Garland, Utah, got to know several women in their ward by becoming a “secret granddaughter” to them. Each girl chose a woman from the ward and then spent three weeks leaving small surprises and sending good wishes through the mail. During the fourth week, the girls interviewed their grandmothers about their lives. At the end of the activity, the Laurels gave a dinner party honoring their grandmothers.

The girls provided much-needed fellowship for the sisters, many of whom are in poor health. And they had a great time doing it. “This is the most fun activity we have ever planned,” said one Laurel.

My husband’s brother, John*, was being transferred out of state. It was hard to accept the fact that he, his wife, Annie, and their family were leaving. We had spent a lot of time together and had grown quite close.
After John’s family had been gone a few months, my husband, Ron, called to see how they were doing. They had adjusted well and were enjoying their new area. My husband owned a small business and let his brother know the door was always open if he ever wanted to move back and work with him. At that point in the conversation John’s wife, Annie, spoke up and told Ron in no uncertain terms that they were not interested. She apparently said some unkind things about Ron as well as his business.
Ron came home and shared this conversation with me. Although he tried to appear as if it didn’t bother him, I could tell he was deeply hurt. I was enraged and wanted to call Annie immediately and set her straight.
I didn’t call, but once I had allowed myself to be offended, I opened the gates to a flood of foul thoughts. I began finding fault with Annie and gossiped about her with other family members and friends. In essence, I allowed pride to creep into my heart and take root, while charity withered away.
Just as an infection can spread and cause deterioration and pain to the physical body, pride can do the same to the spirit. Although my husband had long forgotten the incident, my heart remained infected. My thoughts were focused on how hurt I was. I was on edge with my family and quick to see the worst in every situation. I had no desire to love and serve others because I was caught up in myself.
After several months we heard that John and Annie were coming to town for a family wedding. I would finally have to face her. I dreaded seeing her, but there was no way around it. As the wedding day approached, my anxiety mounted. I didn’t like the way I had been feeling, and I knew it was wrong. I prayed often for the Savior to help me overcome my negative feelings. Eventually, good thoughts about Annie started to fill my mind.
When I saw her at the wedding, we exchanged shallow greetings. I tried to avoid her the rest of the evening, but I watched her. And as I watched her I realized how much I missed her. My heart began to ache for the peace of forgiveness, and I was overcome with love for Annie.
When the evening reception was nearly over, I found myself sitting alone with Annie. We still hadn’t spoken since our first greeting. I looked at her, and the Spirit filled my heart. I reached out and put my hands on her cheeks. With tears in my eyes, I said, “Annie, I have missed you so much.” We hugged and cried and rejoiced in the peace that comes through forgiveness.
I don’t remember if we ever said we were sorry or if we explained our earlier feelings. All that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the love we felt and our desire to forgive. I didn’t realize until afterward what a huge burden I had been carrying. Pride is a heavy load and an unnecessary one. Feeling the Savior’s perfect love, however, was a sweet and humbling joy.

When I was 16, my seemingly healthy, vigorous 41-year-old father dropped dead while water skiing. As you can imagine, this was a shocking event in my life and caused me much anguish. Why did this happen? This event was cause for considerable reflection and much prayer as I struggled to set my own course. A few months later, standing on the newly grown grass over his grave at the Ogden, Utah, cemetery, I decided several important matters:
One, that I would always keep the Word of Wisdom.
Two, that I would serve a mission.
Three, that I would always make him proud that I was his son.
Four, that I would strive to be successful as he was.
Five, that I would always be active in the Church.
Six, that I would marry someone in the temple as fine as my mother.
These were simple yet life-defining decisions. They were as indelible as the words carved on my father’s headstone, for my resolve was, in effect, carved in stone—unalterable and resolute. I had “decided to decide.”

One friend told me of an experience he had with his father more than 40 years earlier, when he was a teenager. My friend played on the high school basketball team in a small, predominantly Latter-day Saint town in Wyoming. One night a few of the other basketball players got into some trouble. Later my friend’s father said to him, “It’s sad that this happened. I know if you had been there, you would never have allowed such a thing to occur.” This statement of trust expanded the boy’s trust limit with his father as nothing else ever did. It was suddenly easier to talk to his father about matters that demanded trust.

Young men and women, you can be a great influence for good in your homes as you help to achieve worthy family objectives. I shall never forget the family home evening years ago in which the name of each member of our family was placed in a hat. The name you picked from the hat would be your “secret friend” for the week. You can imagine the love that filled my heart when I came home that Tuesday after work to sweep out the garage, as I had earlier promised, and found it cleanly swept. There was a note attached to the garage door which read, “Hope you had a good day—your secret friend.” And on Friday night, as I turned down my bed, I uncovered an Almond Joy, my favorite candy bar, wrapped carefully in scotch tape and plain white paper, with a note: “Dad, I love you a lot! Thanks, your secret friend.” Then to top it off, after returning home from a late meeting Sunday evening, I found the dining room table beautifully set, and written on the napkin by my place were the words “SUPER DAD” in big bold letters and in parentheses, “Your secret friend.” Hold your family home evenings, for this is where the gospel is taught, a testimony is gained, and the family is fortified.

Francesca’s daughter has a severe milk allergy. While her daughter was in Primary, one of her teachers loved to bring homemade cupcakes to class for birthdays. Francesca offered to bring safe cupcakes whenever there was a birthday. The teacher declined the offer and instead sent the six-year-old girl to sit in the hallway when birthday treats were shared.

“This was so hurtful on many levels,” Francesca recalls. “I wish the teacher would have taken the opportunity to teach the children to ‘be like Jesus’ and care enough to include everyone.”

Inclusion and exclusion are common themes when you speak to families with food allergies. Cynthia’s nine-year-old son, who is allergic to peanuts and tree nuts, was anticipating attending a day camp. However, on the morning of the camp, a call came from a leader asking him not to attend. They could not accommodate his allergies.

“I hung up with her and sobbed,” Cynthia recalls, “the sorrowful, bottom-of-my-heart tears for my little guy who was excluded again.”

Katie Edna Steed, disability specialist manager for the Church, notes: “The Savior would leave the 99 and seek after the one. We need to remember that example—to see the one and be aware of the one.”

There is much that members with food allergies and their ward families can do to show love and make church participation safe and inclusive.

What can families with food allergies do?

Families with allergies can explain their needs to leaders and teachers—and communicate again as leaders and teachers change. They can offer to supply safe food and help plan menus and activities. They can provide simple, life-saving training and emergency plans. They will be understanding when members express fear or reservations, but they will patiently educate members and work together to find safe and inclusive options. They should ask for reasonable accommodations that the ward can make and sustain.

What can ward members do?

Ward members can seek to understand individual situations. Ward members should defer to parental instruction about giving food to a child. If food is necessary for an activity or lesson, teachers and leaders can ask individuals and parents if the food will be safe. Ward members can invite individuals and parents to participate and problem solve as circumstances require.

Suzanne has several food allergies. She has been particularly touched by the sensitivity of the priests in her ward as they prepare the sacrament. “I am so humbled by the young men who have made it safe for me to take the sacrament,” she says.

One Sunday, the sacrament was not passed to her. The priests preparing it had noticed that her bread had been cross contaminated by the other bread on the table.

“They found me after sacrament meeting, explained what happened, and told me they had received special permission from the bishop to administer the sacrament to me in a classroom,” Suzanne says. “I cried as they blessed and passed the sacrament in that small room. I could feel the Savior’s love so strongly and His knowledge of how much I had struggled with this challenge.”

“Showing willingness to make a safe environment at church for people with severe allergies is also showing a willingness to bear one another’s burdens,” says Suzanne.

Francesca’s daughter is now in Young Women. Her Young Women president felt prompted to help this family in their burden. “I felt like we needed to do what it took to make sure she was not forced to choose between her safety and her worship,” she said. “I prayed about how we needed to face this situation and felt firmly that we needed to embrace this family and make sure they were fully included.”

Youth leaders accepted the challenge to plan an overnight youth conference that Francesca’s daughter could safely attend. Francesca helped plan the menu and shop for food. The young men power washed the griddles before cooking on them.

“It was wonderful!” says Francesca. “I cried and felt God’s love through their kind, inclusive actions. So did my daughter.”

In August 2002, President Gordon B. Hinckley unexpectedly came to New York City and spoke to us, saying, “Today we want to announce to you that in two years you will have your temple. I hope to be here to see it.” Time went by, and our expectations grew. Finally, it was announced that the open house would begin in early May 2004. I put my name on every volunteer list I could find, and because I had accumulated vacation days at work, I was able to work for 11 uninterrupted days in the temple.
As a tour guide, I felt the Spirit on each tour, and the best reward was hearing visitors’ comments. I remember one stout man, who walked with a cane. After the tour, with eyes shining, he said, “I never thought I would find a place that emanated as much peace as I have felt here today.” The temple open house brought many miracles like this one. It moved many hearts and caused many to reflect and feel the very special spirit that reigns there.

At the same time I lost my faith in science, I began to lose my faith in mankind. I took a class in which beliefs, truths, ethics, and morals were discussed. Many students in the class believed that there was no such thing as absolute truth, a God, or morality. They did not believe in personal responsibility and accountability for their actions. These people symbolized the world to me, so I began to lose my faith in mankind when I lost my faith in them.
I realized that much of what I had been taught as fact was not. This changed my perspective on everything in my life. I no longer saw teachers as sources of truth. I began to question all that I had been taught and had believed in. I wanted everything to be proven to me.
I began to question whether an absolute truth could exist. Yet I knew that certain things must exist. My lack of ability to comprehend God caused me to question his existence. I would say to myself, “God exists and his laws are absolute.” Then I would quickly think of something else to avoid questioning God’s existence.
Yet as I learned more, I tried to understand and explain God. Although I disliked my thinking, I could not deny what I felt. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to believe in that which I had always believed. My life was becoming depressing and insecure.
As the desire for stability and truth grew in my life, this great desire caused me to turn to the scriptures. It was then that I found a new meaning in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would ask God, the eternal Father in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
These were words of hope and comfort to me. I began to read the Book of Mormon with a new purpose. The writings of the prophets found a new place in my heart. I read with the desire to learn and know.
I longed for the comfort, purpose, and perspective that the gospel had always given to my life. Each night before I read, I would pray with a great desire to know the truth. I felt that the scriptures were true, but I wanted to know. When I read, I often found scriptures that gave me inspiration on how to live my life better. Many tears were shed as I felt the power and truth of the Book of Mormon.
I began to regard prayer more seriously. My relationship with my Father in Heaven became much closer. I prayed to him with a new enthusiasm. I desired to know if he was there. I prayed for a remission of my sins. I prayed for forgiveness because of my lack of faith.
After reading the Book of Mormon, I knelt in prayer. I had a great desire to know of its truth. I hoped it was true, knowing what joy this would bring me. That night I prayed for hours desiring to know. The following nights I continued in my prayers and began to wonder if I would receive a witness.
My determination in waiting for a witness was a trial of my faith. After many days I came to the realization that I knew the Book of Mormon was true. It came not as a sign or a voice. I knew because in the center of my being I could not deny that it was true. I also knew that God existed and that he is my Heavenly Father, that Jesus Christ is the only begotten son of God.
This came to me, not as new knowledge, but as a peaceful remembrance of that which I already knew. I did not need a further witness. I had always known the truth. My pride in my own knowledge had caused me to forget my testimony.
With this new understanding my life received meaning and peace. Although I still question some of what I hear, I do it for my own good and a desire to learn the truth.

My friend Katie was sick. She’s in my class at school. She didn’t come to school for two months. I heard that the doctor didn’t know what was wrong with her. Everyone in class wrote get-well cards to her. We felt sorry for her.
I told my mother about Katie. We talked about it and thought that it was a good idea to fast for her. That Sunday, we prayed and fasted for her.
One Sunday, I made cookies and a card for her, and after church, I took them to her house. Her dad took the cookies and the card and said, “She is getting better and is coming to school tomorrow.” That made me feel very happy.
The next day at recess, we all were so happy that we crowded around her. We were happy to see her again.

Like Irene, I, too, was once a Bishop’s wife. My story goes like this. My day started off in a typical way. I sent off my husband to work and children to school and then I set off to work. Right before 3 p.m., I felt a need to go home. I was not too sure why but I did. The instant I stepped into our front room at home the phone rang. I answered it only to discover a very distraught mother on the other end saying, “My son is going into emergency surgery at Wahiawa General Hospital. I am desperately trying to find someone who will go and be there when he comes out of surgery. Can you be there for my son?” How would you have responded? As a mother, my heart just melted. I told the mother that I would go. After getting her contact information, I hung up. Then, I called up a member of my husband’s ward to accompany me. She also happened to really like this guy. Oh Oh. Maybe I should have found someone else. Well it’s too late. We arrived there just in time to see the student come out of surgery. He was still heavily sedated but the doctors said that everything went well and that they would be contacting his parents to report on the surgery. My ward helper sneakily said to the heavily sedated patient, “Uh so what do you think about ...” and crazy enough the guy was playing along. I jokingly said to both of them, “This does not count. He is on too much medication.” “So Sorry.” We laughed. For the next couple days, we took care of the young man taking him home and nurturing him back to health. I treated him like he was my own child. His mom was relieved and I am glad for the Holy Ghost prompting me on that day to go home.

After several unsuccessful visits and discussions with the missionaries, I came to recognize the fact that the Church was true, but I had a problem: The Book of Mormon. I did not accept the idea that there was another scripture besides the Bible that would testify of Christ. I had a keen interest in reading and my supposed broad knowledge of the Bible and other philosophical books did not facilitate my discussions with missionaries.
Finally, I began to read the Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just out of curiosity, but once I started, I could not find the strength to stop. After a full reading in a month, I began to feel something deep inside me, a warm feeling in my heart, a light in my mind, a transformation, a voice.
At night, I could not close my eyes because my mind was revealed about the sacredness of the Book of Mormon. I was baptized in February 2010. As a result, I served a full-time mission and married Prisca Ebi, a lovely daughter of our Heavenly Father!

While serving as young missionaries in Chile, my companion and I were walking down a street in the city of Los Andes. Across the way, a lady leaned out of her window to shake a blanket and said, “Good morning, elders.” She then disappeared into her house. I was surprised by her greeting. I walked up to the door, knocked, and when the woman answered, I asked, “How did you know us?”

She invited us in and explained that she and her husband had been two of the first people baptized in that community many years earlier. They had loved the Church until they had been offended. They now attended another church. “Now we know the Mormon Church is not true,” she said, retrieving a book titled something like Everything You Want to Know about the Mormons and written, of course, by a non-LDS author.

I glanced at the first few pages. I wasn’t an expert in Church history, but I knew Joseph Smith did not claim to see two angels named Urim and Thummim! “Not all this is true,” I said to the woman. “Look, if you want to know about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, talk to us. We’ll help you.”

That was the beginning. In the weeks that followed, my companion and I watched the members of this family add to their testimony tanks through study. They became active in the Church, but relying only on experiences in the Church was not enough to see this sister and her family through when the going got rough. Now, because they had also studied hard and found answers on their own, they each could say, “I know.”

The Mutual-age youth of the East Liverpool Branch in Ohio were starting to get bored last summer, but instead of taking a nap, they decided to put their heads together and plan a special project. The idea they came up with was an original silent movie, complete with a hero, heroine, two villains, and a poor little fellow named Elmer who is in love with Penelope, the heroine. The Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels wrote the script and talked the Aaronic Priesthood members into joining them as performers. The result was a lot of fun, and a movie to show at a dance last fall.

Years ago, when I played soccer for BYU, I learned a lesson that changed how I prioritized my “double heritage” and my desire to be both a good student-athlete and a good disciple. We were playing at Notre Dame—a big game I had circled months before on the schedule. I was determined and driven to play my best. But that night nothing went right. It was quickly turning out to be the worst game of my life. I felt out of sorts, as if I were playing with two left feet. By halftime, the coach pulled me aside and told me to get it together or I’d find myself on the bench.

It didn’t get better. No more than 10 minutes had passed in the second half when I heard my name called from the sideline: “Cuv!” A substitute was coming in for me. My night was over. Frustrated, I exited the field, muttered a few words of contempt, and kicked a chair because I knew kicking the coach would’ve only satisfied me for a moment.

The coach pulled me aside and said, “Cuv, settle down. There’s another reason I took you out.”

He directed me behind the bench, where my teammate Hugh Smith was lying flat on his back—pale as a ghost, struggling to breathe, and covered in hives. The coach told me that Hugh was about to be taken to the emergency room and asked me to give Hugh a priesthood blessing.

In that moment, being a soccer player became inconsequential. The game didn’t matter. My performance on the field didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that I held the priesthood of God and could act in His name. And under a tent covering a bench during a game in Notre Dame’s soccer stadium, I knelt next to Hugh, laid my hands on his head, and gave him a priesthood blessing.

As I’ve reflected on that experience and others, I’ve learned that what once seemed urgent becomes secondary, and what once seemed small becomes sacred. When we align our desires with the Savior, our perspective changes.

Heavenly Father certainly sends us things when we need them most! I’ve just said good-bye to my boyfriend prior to his departure on a mission, and I was missing him very much and writing him very miserable letters. Then the December New Era arrived with “The Way to a Missionary’s Mailbox,” which uplifted me so much, and I’m sure that his mission will now be much more successful because of it. My nonmember family also realizes this.
Susan AyerChristchurch, New Zealand