Gospel Story Finder

Soccer may be Raphael’s sport of choice, but volleyball is most definitely his game. And he is really good at it. He is so good, in fact, that he played in the final game of the high school volleyball nationals. “That,” Raphael says, “was one of the three happiest days of my life.”
It was a friend who introduced Raphael to volleyball. In 2001 a teammate on his soccer team in Recife pointed out that some private high schools offer volleyball scholarships. At the time, Raphael was trying for a soccer scholarship but found his physical skills kept him from playing at the level the coaches wanted. But he seemed to have an unexplored talent for volleyball. “So I played volleyball until I got good at it,” he says. He became so good that he was able to secure a full scholarship to a private high school.
At school, he played in the Recife city championships, then in the regionals in northeast Brazil, one of the most important tournaments in the country. But his success didn’t end there. Not long afterward, he was asked to join the Pernambuco State team to prepare for the national high school tournament. His team won almost all of its games, losing only in the final match. He has the medals to show for it.
“As a volleyball player,” he says, “I’ve learned to play as a member of a team. One person can’t win alone. You have to look out for one another and help one another.”
In the same way, the Church has taught him to play as a member of the Lord’s team. “The Church has taught me to teach and care for others, to always watch for when people need help. There’s no better place to learn to live the gospel than in the Church. The Lord wants all of us to practice the gospel. That’s why I’m going on a mission.”
Raphael will be giving up a college athletic scholarship to do so. Recruited by several schools, he was tempted to accept a scholarship from one of them. But at this point in his life, he would rather serve on a mission than serve on a volleyball court. He knows he is making the right choice.
“As much success as I have had in sports,” he says, “I want to do better as a missionary. I feel that no matter where I go, I can do well—if I let the Lord coach me.”

I remember a woman who constantly nagged her husband (an inactive elder) about not paying his tithing, saying again and again, “When you don’t pay your tithing, you deny me and the children the blessings that are associated with this commandment. … I want those blessings, even if you don’t.” She became so irate and her marriage became so disturbed over this issue that she went to the bishop trying to get his aid in forcing her husband to pay tithing. The bishop’s response was, “Overall your husband is basically a good and righteous man. If you sustain him in righteousness, even in his judgment not to pay tithing at this time, the Lord will sustain you, and you will be obeying God’s commandments and will not miss out on any of the blessings.” When the husband later learned of this bishop’s counsel, he was so moved and impressed that his Church activity increased and the marital relationship was much improved.

When I was attending Brigham Young University, I learned what it truly means to be a queen. I was given a unique opportunity, along with a small group of other students, to meet the prophet, President David O. McKay. I was told to wear my best dress and to be ready to travel early the next morning to Huntsville, Utah, to the home of the prophet. I will never forget the experience I had. As soon as we entered the home, I felt the spirit which filled that home. We were seated in the prophet’s living room, surrounding him. President McKay had on a white suit, and seated next to him was his wife. He asked for each of us to come forward and tell him about ourselves. As I went forward, he held out his hand and held mine, and as I told him about my life and my family, he looked deeply into my eyes.

After we had finished, he leaned back in his chair and reached for his wife’s hand and said, “Now, young women, I would like you to meet my queen.” There seated next to him was his wife, Emma Ray McKay. Although she did not wear a crown of sparkling diamonds, nor was she seated on a throne, I knew she was a true queen. Her white hair was her crown, and her pure eyes sparkled like jewels. As President and Sister McKay spoke of their family and their life together, their intertwined hands spoke volumes about their love. Joy radiated from their faces. Hers was a beauty that cannot be purchased. It came from years of seeking the best gifts, becoming well educated, seeking knowledge by study and also by faith. It came from years of hard work, of faithfully enduring trials with optimism, trust, strength, and courage. It came from her unwavering devotion and fidelity to her husband, her family, and the Lord.

On that fall day in Huntsville, Utah, I was reminded of my divine identity, and I learned about what I now call “deep beauty”—the kind of beauty that shines from the inside out. It is the kind of beauty that cannot be painted on, surgically created, or purchased. It is the kind of beauty that doesn’t wash off. It is spiritual attractiveness. Deep beauty springs from virtue. It is the beauty of being chaste and morally clean. It is the kind of beauty that you see in the eyes of virtuous women like your mother and grandmother. It is a beauty that is earned through faith, repentance, and honoring covenants.

We have been taught that “the gift of the Holy Ghost … quickens all the intellectual faculties, increases, enlarges, expands and purifies all the natural passions and affections. … It inspires virtue, kindness, goodness, tenderness, gentleness and charity. It develops beauty of person, form and features.” Now, that is a great beauty secret! That is the beauty I observed in the home of a prophet. That day I learned that the beauty I saw in Sister McKay was the only beauty that really matters and the only kind of beauty that lasts.

I spent my career in the department store business. Because I was part of a management team, it was important for me to interact socially with local business organizations. The meetings with most of these organizations always started with a cocktail hour. It was a time to mix and get acquainted with the men who belonged to the organization. I have always felt uncomfortable in these social hours. At first I started asking for a lemon-lime soda. I soon discovered that lemon-lime soda looks like many of the other drinks. I could not build the impression I was a nondrinker with a clear soda in my hands. I tried root beer. It had the same problem.

Finally I decided I had to have a drink that would clearly mark me as a nondrinker. I went to the bartender and requested a glass of milk. The bartender had never had such a request. He went into the kitchen and found a glass of milk for me. Now I had a drink that looked very different from the alcoholic beverages the others were drinking. Suddenly I was the center of attention. There were a lot of jokes made of my drink. My milk was a conversation piece. I met more business leaders that evening than I ever had before at a cocktail hour.

Milk became my drink of choice at the cocktail hours. It soon became common knowledge I was a Mormon. The respect I received really surprised me, as did an interesting event that started to occur. Others soon joined me in a pure milk cocktail!

On April 1, 1946, an 8+ earthquake off the cost of the Aleutian Islands in Alaska caused a great tsunami. The tsunami travelled almost 500 miles an hour, reaching Hawaii in less than five hours. Waves up to 50 feet in height hit the Big Island coast before 7 in the morning. 159 people were killed in Hawaii that day. President Spencer W. Kimball, in a General Conference talk, described that in Hilo, a husband and wife saw the tsunami just in time to grab their baby and run to high land. But two other daughters were too far away playing among a clump of trees. Those daughters saw the wave, held on to the trunks of those trees for dear life, and held their breaths until the wave passed by and their heads were again above water. Then they ran up the hill to safety. Brothers and sisters, when I imagine those girls clinging to the trees, that’s what I imagine Nephi meant by “hold fast” to the iron rod. Today, we need to cling with all of our might, hold fast, because the temptations of the devil, the mists of darkness are just too great. They are like a great tsunami.

When I was a child, my parents sang in our ward choir. Mother especially loved to sing at Christmastime. Every Christmas Eve our family reenacted the Nativity story and sang Christmas songs. We always finished with mother’s favorite, “Silent Night.”
In her early 60s, my mother developed asthma. Years of coughing and struggling with the illness eventually ravaged her voice. She also lost hearing in one ear and suffered diminished hearing in the other ear. She still attempted to sing but often just read and thought about a song’s lyrics.
One Sunday while I visited my parents during the Christmas season, we attended sacrament meeting. The program centered on the birth and mission of Jesus Christ.
“I won’t have asthma in the hereafter, will I?” my mother asked me before the meeting started.
“Of course not,” I replied.
Then we talked about other physical ailments she would no longer have after the Resurrection.
“I’ll be able to sing again,” she said.
“With the choirs of heaven,” I added.
As we sang the opening hymn, “Away in a Manger,” Mother could not hear the piano accompaniment. She started singing the Primary version of the song instead of the Hymns version, which has a different melody. I tried to correct her, but she had difficulty hearing me. During the sacrament hymn, she continued to struggle. She really wanted to sing, but her pitch was all over the place.
As the sacrament meeting progressed, I felt the warmth of the Spirit and the sweet innocence of the children who bore their testimonies of the Savior in song. Then, as the congregation began to sing the closing song, “Silent Night,” so did my mother.
Listening to her struggle, I wished with all my heart that she could again sing Christmas songs the way she used to. As she sang, however, I felt the quiet warmth of the Spirit speak to my mind and heart: “Her offering is acceptable to me.”
At that moment, my mother’s voice took on a new beauty, blessed and sanctified by a loving Savior who looked on her heart. And, as He did when the widow cast in two mites (see Luke 21:1–4), He rejoiced in her sincerity and offering.

I always looked forward to Primary activity day because it meant exciting activities, great games, and tasty treats. Sometimes the activities were serious and spiritual, and I liked those, too, because I learned so much. But of all the great activities I went to, I remember one more than any other.
At 10:00 on the dot that Saturday, I showed up at church, along with the rest of the Primary-age children in my ward. After an opening prayer, a song, and a few instructions, we split into groups. I followed my group into a classroom and was surprised to find a large piece of green-and-white-checked fabric and a piece of solid green fabric, with a layer of fluffy stuff in between. It was all stretched out and tacked to some boards. Nearby were yarn and big needles. “A quilt,” I thought. “Who would be tying a quilt right in the middle of our Primary activity?”
“We are all going to help tie this quilt for someone in the ward who isn’t feeling well,” one of our Primary leaders explained. “After it’s finished, we’ll give it to her.”
“What a great idea!” I thought. When I’m having a hard time, I enjoy wrapping up in a nice warm blanket. But I wondered how well it would turn out since I had never tied a quilt and was pretty sure the rest of the Primary hadn’t either.
Then the Primary president announced who would receive the quilt—my own lucky mom! I was even more excited to try my hardest so the quilt would look nice.
My mom had been very ill all month. In fact, Grandma had to stay with us for a while because Mom was so sick she couldn’t take care of us. She had to be released from her Primary calling, too. Even though Mom’s illness wasn’t easy for our family, something good was going to happen. I would have a baby brother!
With the help of our leaders, we set to work. Even though I wondered if we could really do it, we tied that quilt. Everyone made a stitch or two. Then we each wrote a message, signed our name, or drew a picture in a book that went along with the quilt. I knew what we were doing would mean a lot to Mom because she told me how much she loved and missed all the children in Primary. And the person who bought the fabric must have been inspired, because green is Mom’s favorite color.
Tying the quilt wasn’t hard, but keeping quiet about it sure was. A few weeks later, the secret was finally revealed. On a sunny Sunday morning during singing time, we all walked a block from the church and around the corner to my backyard. We sat on the lawn and waited while one of our leaders knocked on the door.
You can probably guess that when Mom stepped outside and saw all the children gathered, she cried. She cried even more when we sang some of our favorite Primary songs in our best voices. Then the Primary president presented the finished quilt and the book of messages.
“Your singing was beautiful,” Mom said through her tears. “This is one of the nicest things that has ever happened to me.” I knew she meant it. She smiled and cried some more and said that she was going to go inside, wrap up in the quilt, and read every message we had written.
Mom still has that quilt, and I know she always will. It has a few extra-long loops of yarn on the back where some of the stitches weren’t pulled all the way through. Mom says that makes it even more special. To this day, when someone in the family is sick or has a bad day, nothing makes us feel better than wrapping up in the memories and warmth of what we affectionately call the “Primary quilt.”

When I was a boy in Primary, I believed, without questioning, whatever my Primary teacher told me. One summer day she taught us about prayer: “Remember, if you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.” I skipped home thinking of nothing more than playing baseball with my brothers. I didn’t know that the next day I would test my teacher’s words.
The following morning began, as mornings so often do in St. George, Utah, with the sun scorching the sandstone cliffs and lava rock hills that circle the town. Into the warmth of that perfect day my friend Cindy and I started off on one of our adventures. Clutching an arsenal of small, sharp hooks, two spools of thread, peanut-butter sandwiches, and cupcakes, we scurried toward the fishing hole. The distance wasn’t far, but to our small feet it seemed a long way.
Finally we reached the pond, the clear water reflecting the unspotted sky on its shimmering surface. Tall, tangled trees, each trying to reach the light, surrounded it, and a small island clung close to one side. We imagined that Peter Pan lived there, hiding from Captain Hook, whose ship lay harbored somewhere in the maze of trees and reeds.
Each adventurous step we took through the bushes sent a crowd of colored insects into flight. At last we came to the cement-encased headgate covered with brown and orange rust. We paused there and looked at the pond and the willows surrounding it, feeling as though the Amazon lay before us and that we had come to bury stolen treasure.
We sat down, slipped off our shoes, and dangled our dusty feet lazily in the cool water. Tying our thread to the hooks, we anticipated the prize fish that we would catch. Then we realized that we had brought nothing to use for bait! It was unthinkable to use any part of our lunches, so the homemade lines just hung loosely in the water, our excitement sinking as rapidly as the bare hooks.
The fishing having been frustrating, we soon found something new to occupy the morning. Close to the pond, and right next to a red sandstone mesa, was a sand hill. One side of the hill slanted smoothly upward, but the other side stopped partway down, forming a cliff as high as a house. At the base of the cliff was a rubble of rough sandstone. Off we ran, the world’s greatest mountain climbers, courageously tackling the tallest mountain.
As we reached the hill, we could see an old cedar post on top, peeled of its bark by years of service as part of an extinct fence.
“Race you to the post on the top!” I shouted.
Up the hill we scampered, sinking at times into the soft, warm sand. Small avalanches trailed behind us and could be heard falling on the rocks beneath the cliff. Soon I was on all fours, rushing toward the fence post like a dog chasing a stick—but unaware that I was ascending alone. I reached the top, exhilarated by my victory, and whirled around with a grin to face my opponent. But she wasn’t right behind me! She had run into deep sand and, unable to lift her feet, had panicked and started flailing around—sliding backward toward the edge of the cliff.
Her soiled face was a picture of fear, and her eyes could open no wider. Clean, tear-washed streaks streamed down her sunburned cheeks. I yelled at her to turn around and go down the hill the other way. Her only response was a sobbing “Help me!” But we both knew that if I went straight down to her, the sand moving before me would push her over the edge. Desperate, she cried out again, “Help me!”
I remembered my Primary teacher’s words from the day before, and I prayed fervently. Miraculously, Cindy stopped sliding. Something beneath her small feet stopped her. I went down a different way, inched cautiously to where she was, and helped her turn around. When she was on safe footing, I reached down to where she had stopped sliding and picked up a rock no larger than the whetstone my father used to sharpen my Cub Scout knife! Somehow that bit of stone had prevented a tragedy. I slipped it into my pocket, and we headed home. We had had enough adventure for one day.
Later I placed the rock on a shelf in my room to remind me of my wise Primary teacher’s words: “If you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.”
Now, years later, I still find courage in that saving scrap of sandstone.

Back in November 1999, I was asked by our college dean to give a presentation to our college's faculty about how to prepare for Y2K. "Y2K" stood for the year 2000--particularly January 1, 2000--when apparently all computers and basically anything electronic was supposed to crash; when life as we knew it would come to a screeching halt. Personally, I did not worry too much about it. I knew that I would be with a group of students up in the Teton Mountains for a weeklong backcountry ski and winter camping trip called Winter Summit. Nothing happened to us. We had no computers and no electricity, just a lot of great new powder snow. I don't believe anything happened anywhere.
But, still there were many who were worried, which is why I was asked to give the talk. Having taught outdoor survival skills, winter camping, and other outdoor courses, I guess our dean thought I could give some suggestions on how to deal with the impending doom. Without asking him, I decided to take a different approach to the topic. Instead of discussing how to prepare for Y2K, I gave my presentation on "YK2?" Here the "Y" did not represent a year, nor did "2K." Rather the "Y" stood for a question: Why? And the K2 stood for just that--K2--the world's second highest mountain and one of the most difficult and challenging to climb.

I learned the gospel from the full-time missionaries and was baptized at age 17 in 1972. Three years later, as an organist, I was at the Budokan arena in Tokyo when President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) announced the construction of the Tokyo Japan Temple.

After the temple was dedicated in 1980, I commuted from Sendai to the temple every month. I would leave work Friday evenings to attend the temple the next day. My desire to attend the temple grew stronger, so I moved to Tokyo in 1981.

“Don’t worry, Gordy,” Benny told his friend. “I’ll get us back to the cabin safely.”
The boys had left the cabin about an hour earlier to explore the area on snowshoes. Benny had been in the woods many times before, but this was the first time for Gordy and he was frightened. A snowstorm had come up so quickly even Benny had been taken by surprise. It was snowing and blowing so hard that the boys could hardly see each other, and there was nothing to mark the way they should go.
Benny was almost as worried as his friend, but aloud he said, “All we need to do, Gordy, is walk straight ahead, and we’ll come to the cabin.”
“Then let’s get going!” Gordy insisted. “I can’t see anything—and it’s scary. What if we get separated?”
“Here,” Benny said as he took a long scarf from around his neck. He tied one end to his own wrist and the other end securely to Gordy’s belt.
“Now we’ll be okay,” he declared, sounding more cheerful than he felt. “Let’s go.”
Benny started out slowly, sliding one foot after the other without lifting his snowshoes off the ground. He felt a slight tug on the scarf as Gordy followed behind.
Suddenly Benny stopped. Gordy nearly collided into him but stopped just in time. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I just remembered something,” Benny said. “Let me think a minute.”
Benny’s mind raced back to the day of Charlie Roger’s birthday party when they played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Benny remembered how he had walked in what seemed to be a straight line toward the donkey, but when he pinned the tail on, it was far to the right. Most of the other boys and girls walked far to the right too.
That night Benny had asked his father, “Why do we turn to the right when we think we’re going straight?”
“When we can’t see,” his father told him, “we move to the right or left because our bodies are not perfectly balanced. Most right-handed people tend to turn to the right because the muscles on that side of their bodies are better developed and slightly heavier.
“When we can see, we compensate for this imbalance without thinking. But in a fog, for instance, people often walk in circles when they think they are going straight.”
What’s true of fog must be true of a snowstorm, thought Benny. I’ll have to concentrate on moving to the left and hope we’ll end up at the cabin.
“Come on,” he said to Gordy. “Let’s go on now.”
Benny started out again, moving slightly to his left. After traveling for a while, he felt a tug on the scarf. He realized that Gordy was signaling for him to stop.
“What’s the matter?” Benny called above the noise of the wind.
“You keep going too far to the left!” Gordy exclaimed. “We should have gone straight. Now we’re lost and we’ll never find the cabin.”
“We’ll find it, Gordy,” Benny promised him. “Just trust me, and we’ll be there soon.”
When they started out again, Benny felt Gordy following reluctantly. The snow continued to swirl around them in thick clouds, and all Benny could see was a heavy mist of white. Even when he turned back to encourage Gordy, he could barely see his friend through the whirling snowflakes.
Before long Benny felt a tug on the scarf and turned to hear Gordy call, “We’re lost. What will we do?”
“No, we’re not lost,” Benny answered. “We’re almost there.”
Benny’s voice was strong against the wind and sounded full of confidence, but inside he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake. Yet he knew they had to keep moving.
Benny quickly moved one snowshoe ahead of the other, giving a little tug on the scarf. Gordy followed silently.
Suddenly Benny stopped. “There’s the cabin!” he shouted. “I see a little light over to the right.”
He felt the tension on the scarf relax as Gordy called, “Oh, Benny, I see it too!”
The boys hurried in the direction of the light, stumbling a little from fatigue and cold.
“We were right on top of it!” Benny said as the boys circled around to the front porch.
Benny could hear his father’s voice calling through the storm.
“We’re here on the porch, Dad!” Benny answered.
Swinging a lantern, Benny’s father came around from the back of the cabin.
“I’m certainly glad to see both of you,” he said, holding up the light to see the boys. “I’ve been calling and calling for you ever since the storm started. I didn’t dare move out of sight of the cabin, for I knew it wouldn’t help if I got lost too.”
“Well, I thought we were lost,” said Gordy, “but Benny knew just where to go.”
“You can tell me all about it when you’ve changed your clothes and had some hot chocolate,” Benny’s father said. “The important thing is that you’re here.”
As the boys hurried into the warm cabin, they looked at each other and smiled. “You’re right, Dad,” Benny said. “The important thing is that we’re here.”

My favorite year of rugby was the year after high school. The team of which I was a member was both talented and committed. We were the champion team that year. However, one day we were to play a lowly ranked team, and after the game we all had dates to take to the big, annual college dance. I thought that because this would be an easy game, I should try to protect myself from injury so I would be able to enjoy the dance fully. In that game, we were not as committed in the hard contacts as we might have been, and we lost. To make things worse, I ended the match with a very swollen, fat lip that did not enhance my appearance for my big date. Perhaps I needed to learn something.

My father, Juan Castro Duque, is the president of the Chile Osorno Mission. One warm, sunny, Saturday afternoon he asked us to accompany him to a baptism he had been invited to perform. As we drove to the lake, where the baptism would take place, it began to rain and everyone was getting wet and muddy. The rain continued through the service.
When the service was over, the wind became a soft breeze, the rain slowed, and the lake was calm. Then, a beautiful rainbow appeared. The sky was still covered by dark clouds, but the rainbow was radiant.
It was then that I understood that the sacrifice of baptism to join Christ’s church was worth anything. It did not matter anymore if we had to worry about bad weather or other trivial things, after witnessing a miracle of such beauty. Since that day, I have felt our Heavenly Father’s love much more. I know it was He who gave us that beautiful vision of peace, love, and hope.
Carolina CastroOsorno, Chile

On a beautiful summer morning, our family attended the Special Olympics to watch our son Scott participate. The Special Olympics are held each year to allow people with disabilities to enjoy friendly competition. We observed that as the runners were taking their positions for the fifty-yard dash, they were being encouraged by special friends affectionately known as huggers. Seconds before the start of the race, these huggers took their places at the finish line of the race. It didn’t matter who crossed the finish line first. What did matter was that every runner completed the race and that every runner received a congratulatory hug. Both the courageous runners and the caring huggers taught important principles of truth.

My great-grandma didn’t have much money growing up, so she and her family did scavenger hunts for Christmas because the only presents they could afford were little things like pencils and erasers. The scavenger hunt made up for not getting a lot of big or expensive gifts.
The tradition has been passed down, and now every Christmas, my family does a scavenger hunt. My siblings and I make scavenger hunts for each other and hide clues—I even hid a clue on my dog once. I like it not only because it’s fun, but because it brings my family together and I get to connect with my great-grandmother, even though I’ve never met her.
This tradition helps us understand that Christmas isn’t about the presents you get. It’s about Christ, His birth, and everything He’s done for us. I know Christ’s Atonement is not just used for repentance; we can use it because Christ knows exactly what we’re going through. We’re never alone, and Jesus knows what we’re going through because He went through it too.
Rachel B., 16, California, USA

In pioneer times, Loretta Ellsworth Hansen and Hans Hansen, Jr., accompanied her brother, Frank, and his fiancée on their trip along the Honeymoon Trail. This is the experience she recorded:
“One morning, way out in the desert, the boys were greasing the rear wagon, we girls, at the other washing dishes, found ourselves completely surrounded by large prairie wolves. We lost no time climbing into our wagon and the boys killed wolves as long as their ammunition lasted. It was a sight to see about fifty large wolves lined up like soldiers. At the sound of the gun they would jump back a few paces still facing us, then they would step forward again. The howling of the wounded, and the firing of the guns finally frightened them away” (Roberta Clayton, ed., Pioneer Women of Arizona, Mesa, Arizona, 1969, p. 209).

“I began my career by chasing my sons,” she quips. And it’s literally true. Her two younger sons, she has six children, had taken up running and, concerned at age thirty-seven about her own fitness, she began jogging with them. In 1963 “the Big Walk became the rage in the Transvaal,” and Mavis found herself becoming “one of the top lady walkers in the country.” She liked it—the competition, the continually increasing endurance and discipline, and the self-discovery.

Mavis had never thought of herself as athletic. Her father, George Vaughn, was a runner and rugby player in Kimberly, site of “the biggest manmade hole on earth,” where he worked for a diamond-mining company. Yet Mavis, a nervous child, suffered from chorea (St. Vitus’s dance) in her early teens that left her bedridden for three months on three separate occasions. Running was an unexpected development in the life of Mrs. Ernest Hutchison of Johannesburg, the mother of six children, and now the grandmother of seven.

From walking, she branched out into cross-country running and worked hard to get the Republic of South Africa to recognize women’s cross-country as a legitimate sport. She was rewarded in the usual way by getting more work to do; she was appointed to manage the first women’s team to represent South Africa abroad, touring the United Kingdom in 1969.

By then she was working seriously on her running and signed up for “one of the most gruelling marathons in the world,” the Comrades’ Marathon which starts 760 meters above sea level at Pietermaritzburg and runs through “87 kilometers of breath-taking scenery to the coastal city of Durban.” This is “the down run.” The “up run,” held in alternate years, begins at Durban and climbs breathlessly to Pietermaritzburg.

By then, running had become a way of life. She challenged herself more, pushed herself harder, and then, in 1978, faced the two greatest challenges of her life. One challenge was to run completely across the United States. The other was to accept the message of the Mormon missionaries.

She met the missionaries just before she left for the United States and asked them to come back because “I was frantic with last-minute preparations.”

Standing on the steps of the Los Angeles City Hall on 12 March 1978 she knew she was facing “the greatest challenge of my life” both spiritually and physically. “It was my greatest ambition, but I felt so apprehensive. Would I really be able to do it? What lay ahead of me? Was I strong enough? Had I prepared properly? I wished I’d had enough sense to have stayed at home.”

Then the clock struck nine and she was off. Followed by two vans, Mavis ran fourteen hours a day, starting at 4 A.M. and stopping only for meals. She ran through thirteen states, through four time zones. She took six million footsteps, one at time. She wore twenty-five pairs of shoes in rotation, and had repairs made forty times.

The weather, almost systematically, hit her with every variation. For four weeks she slogged through intense heat. For the next four weeks, she struggled through gale-force winds—that literally blew her off her feet more than once—and bitter cold, staggering along under the weight of two tracksuits, a soft, flat cap with no visor, gloves, and a lightweight jacket the wind can’t blow through. Then it rained without stopping for seven days. One raincoat would keep her dry for exactly one hour; she wore two. Together, they kept her dry for four hours.

The weather was not her only challenge. “The traffic was frightening,” she exclaimed. At one dangerous stretch, cars were whizzing past every seven seconds. She stopped running only one day—the thirty-third—when shin splints made it impossible to continue. The next day, teeth gritted and literally dragging her right foot, she was back on the road.

“I prayed often for courage to bear the pain,” she remembers. “I didn’t ask God to take it away, but just to help me bear it.” She prayed often throughout the journey: “‘Please God, give me the stamina to fight the wind, the endurance to continue the distance I need to go, the willpower to keep going.’ At no time did I ever doubt that I would finish the distance, but I can assure you that there were times when I didn’t know how I could finish the day or even the next hour. And then I prayed, in the words of John Henry Newman’s beautiful hymn, ‘Please, God, I do not ask to see the distant scene. One step enough for me.’” (“Lead Kindly Light”, No. 112).

Finally the weather relented, and “the last two days were the most beautiful imaginable.” She trotted into New York and landed at the city hall just before noon on May 20, the only woman in history to have run from the Pacific Coast to the Atlantic Coast across the U.S.. Exhilarated from the run, after sixty-nine days, two hours, and forty minutes, she was surprised that it was over, “It came too suddenly,” she said.

Was it worth it? “Yes! I grew beyond my wildest dreams. I learned that nothing is impossible if you’re prepared to work hard enough. Age is irrelevant. There are no barriers and no handicaps. And you must do it yourself. No one can run for you. I also learned that failure is important. From it we learn discipline, patience, perseverance, and the ability to accept disappointments.”

In some real though not yet understood ways, that gruelling run had prepared her for the gospel. The open road “opened my mind and heart to the hidden reaches of a hidden existence. I was ready to discover myself.” Beyond the fear of failure and the pain of the hard work lay an unshakable sense of self, a self that honored the truth and despised sham. And the “purifying solitude” of long runs had given her an instinct for joy.

The chance to plunge into another layer of self-discovery came within a month of her return to Johannesburg. Two missionaries—different ones—called on her. She participated enthusiastically in the six discussions, “sure that they would keep coming indefinitely since I so greatly enjoyed their visits.” But when they asked her if she would be baptized on the next Saturday, “I was completely stunned, I made sure that I was lousy the next Saturday—and the next, and the next.”

But she knew too much about herself now to avoid this second great challenge. “I knew I was just making excuses. I also knew that if I choice not to join the Church I would lose my way again, for I knew there was light in my life that hadn’t been there before.”

The clarity of the decision she must make did not make it any easier. She would have to be baptized alone, the only member of her family to join the Church. She would be changing her life-style for a third time. These things would hurt. But she prayed and “felt the Spirit of Heavenly Father telling me that I must do the right thing.” The Spirit also whispered “that only I could make the choice.”

She made her decision. On 30 September 1978 at 4:30 P.M., she was waiting in Ramah Chapel for her turn to be baptized. It was emotionally a repeat of her experience in Los Angeles. “There were many people being baptized with me. They all looked so calm, so sure, and so radiantly happy. I was very nervous and very unsure and, at that moment, very unhappy. Had I prepared properly? Was I doing the fight thing? It was an enormous commitment—would I be able to keep it?”

And was joining the Church worth it? Again, yes! “I know that I made the right decision. I know there will be many times when I will pray for strength merely to take the next step, but I knew, after I was baptized, that I could get to the end of the road. This is the most important journey of my life.”

Since her baptism she has served as Sunday School secretary, Relief Society social relations leader and visiting teacher, and—naturally—as athletic adviser to the Activities Committee.

In closing, may I share a recent experience. A short time ago I got a call from Elder Holland indicating that he had just received an assignment to accompany a friend of the First Presidency on a visit to BYU. The individual in question is a well-known leader in Asia and heads one of the largest Muslim groups in the world—a group totaling 40 million members. The leader had learned about BYU’s first translation of an Islamic work: The Incoherence of the Philosophers by Al-Ghazali. During the visit he indicated that the book had a profound influence on him as a young man. He was pleased with the translation, but even more important he appreciated the efforts of Professor Daniel Peterson and the scholars working with him to produce a series of Islamic classics in a Western language. He clearly understood the potential cultural bridge that is being built between two worlds—Islam and the West.

Accompanying the leader was a visiting professor at Harvard and a prominent Asian businessman. Following a luncheon and a campus tour, both expressed surprise at the beauty, size, and cleanliness of the campus. They were not aware that BYU is the largest private university in the United States, that students come from each state in the Union and from more than 100 foreign countries. They were amazed to learn that more than 60 languages are taught on campus and more than 80 are spoken. Discussions were held regarding the possibility of further visits, student exchanges, and the recruiting of BYU students for employment.

As the visitors left, I thought how important BYU is as a window on the Church. The glass is not dark but clear and allows viewers to see the values and truths of the restored gospel. Through this window nonmembers feel the importance of education to Church members. They see the youth of the Church, note their strength, and observe the peace within them. The veil that separates is thin when they meet with faculty, discern their cultural sensitivities, and sense the quality of their work and thought.

Making adobe bricks was hard work for young James Nielsen and his family. They lived on a large farm in Fairview, Utah, and some of their ground had perfect clay for making bricks. During the summer of 1912, James, his father, brothers, and other relatives worked long hours mixing mud, molding bricks, and hauling them to the large kiln where they would later be baked.
Now, at summer’s end, 75,000 bricks were placed carefully inside the kiln. James’s eyes gleamed at the sight of so many! They represented the Nielsens’ hard work all summer long. Happily, James’s father started the fire in the kiln, which needed to burn for three weeks straight in order to properly bake the bricks. The temperature had to be kept just right. Cedar wood had been hauled and stacked nearby to fuel the large oven, and James’s brother-in-law, “Uncle George,” watched the fire night and day. James and his brothers took turns cutting wood to keep the fire burning. Everything was going just fine.
But then it started to rain. It poured nonstop for more than a week. The Nielsens soon ran out of the wood they had gathered, and they couldn’t take their horses and wagons into the hills to find more because the ground was too muddy. They burned everything they could spare on the farm—fence posts, corral rails, even the outhouse.
James would never forget how discouraged Uncle George looked as he put the last stick of wood in the oven. “The bricks will be nothing but a pile of smoked mud.” He frowned.
James’s father folded his arms. “I don’t know much about making bricks. I’ve never done it before. But I know Heavenly Father can help us.” He told Uncle George to seal up the kiln as if the process were finished, and suggested that everyone go home and get some rest.
The next morning, James and Uncle George sat together moping. Surely the bricks were ruined. “We all worked so hard,” James said. George nodded. “And for so long.”
James noticed that his father was missing, so he went to look for him. As he rounded the kiln, he found his father kneeling on the soggy ground. James stopped in his tracks. His father was praying aloud, asking the Lord to bless the brick kiln. James heard his father tell the Lord how hard they had all worked and how they had done everything possible to make sure the bricks turned out all right. With great faith and humility, James’s father asked the Lord to help, then ended his prayer. James quickly backed away without his father seeing him.
When it was finally time to open the kiln, most of the family didn’t dare even look at the bricks. But James’s father was calm and confident as he opened up the top of the kiln. James held his breath as his father lifted out two bricks. They were beautiful! They rang like a bell when clicked together, and their color was just right. People came from all over Sanpete County to buy them. People even bought the broken pieces. Not one brick was left.
Remembering this miracle, James later wrote, “We children know that it was done by the priesthood Father held and the power of prayer.”

My employer transferred our family to Beijing just a few years after I had finished graduate school. As I arrived to develop clients for our consulting firm, business leaders from the United States and Europe advised that, to be successful, I would need to take Chinese executives to karaoke bars and consume a lot of alcohol. I chose not to do that, and yet our firm still succeeded.

You may be tempted to break the Word of Wisdom to fit in socially, to try something new, or to obtain a work promotion. You may think that just a little sip will not hurt. I assure you that it will—spiritually, and perhaps physically as well. I testify the Lord will bless you with “wisdom and great treasures”20 as you choose to be peculiar in joyfully living the Word of Wisdom.