Gospel Story Finder

When I was dating, I saw many scenarios where the worth of others was based on appearance. It made me sad to see how some of my friends went on fewer dates than those who seemed to fit the world’s beauty standards. And, unfortunately, in my own quest for an eternal companion, I also had my own checklist of traits—including physical ones—that I was looking for in a future husband.
Eventually, I did find someone to marry in the temple. And in the beginning, I thought we had a wonderful marriage. But I started noticing that my husband would boast to others about how he had married the prettiest girl in the room, and yet he couldn’t ever seem to say anything nice about my appearance privately. He always commented if my weight changed and told me how to do my hair and how to dress.
A few months after I had our first child, my husband unexpectedly said he wanted a divorce. I hadn’t even known something was wrong. Despite my best efforts, he couldn’t be persuaded to work on saving our marriage, and I was left a single mother.
Later, I discovered he had been involved with another woman while we were still married, and I was astounded to find that she looked just like me but was a few years younger and didn’t have any of the changes that came with carrying and delivering a baby. I began wondering why I wasn’t good enough and focusing on my physical flaws.
As I pondered the meaning of true beauty, I found a quote that contrasted with the world’s view of the matter: “Amid ‘all of the deception’ that may initially occur in dating—including always looking our best—we should remember that appearance and style ‘are essentially unessential.’”1
This helped me understand that seeing each other’s spirits, or what’s on the inside, is what is truly important in finding a spouse and is the key to loving others and ourselves. As disciples of Jesus Christ, we should be focusing on strength of character and on our identities as divine spirits.
My divorce hurt me a lot, but it also gave me a chance to reevaluate the meaning of true beauty and divine worth. If you are struggling to recognize your divine worth or that of others, consider the following tips, which helped me reframe my perspective.

I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it! A boy actually asked me out, a real, warm-blooded American boy!

It’s almost midnight, but I can’t sleep. I’ve got to record my first date, my first real, honest-to-goodness date. It happened just like it’s supposed to: the phone rang; I answered; a masculine voice said, “Hi, Micah. This is Mark Sorenson. What are you doing tonight?”

At first I thought he was joking and was just going to ask me to lead the singing at youth activity night or something. I stammered, “Whaa … what?”
“What are you doing tonight?” he repeated.
“N-nothing special.”
“Would you like to go to the movies with me? There’s a good one playing down at the mall.”
“I’ll ask,” I said breathlessly, and ran through the house screaming, “Mom, Mom, Mark Sorenson wants to take me out! Can I go?”

Well, I can’t pretend the evening was perfect. Mom gave her permission, but when Dad came home he got mad because she hadn’t consulted him first, and he said I couldn’t go. I burst into tears. He relented, growling, “You just make sure you’re home by ten.” I hugged him ecstatically.
“You’re great, Dad!”

Then I had to find something to wear. I tried on and discarded everything in my closet—they all seemed to be too short. Again I dissolved into tears. Mom patted me on the back, told me to stop acting like an idiot, and did a quick hem job on one of my dresses. Watching her, I suddenly realized what she was doing. She let the hem down, and that means I’ve grown taller! Immediately I felt better.

Mark was a little late, and I got impatient and started to put on my coat. Mom stopped me. “On a date you should always let a boy help you put on your coat. You should never let it appear as if he’s late, even if he is.” She continued to lecture me on the rules of dating etiquette, and by the time I walked out the door with Mark, I felt very knowledgeable.

The movie was good and Mark was fun, but I’m afraid I was a disaster. The way to learn how to behave on a date is not to take a cram course one minute before you leave. I forgot to let Mark hold the car door open for me, and when I opened a can of soda at the theater, it sprayed all over. We both reached for napkins at the same time and bumped heads. During the movie I ate most of the popcorn, breaking my diet and a rule of etiquette at the same time, and when we got home, I was so flustered I forgot to say thank you. I won’t be surprised if he never asks me out again.

Oh well, at least he did ask me out this once. That’s the important thing. I’m no longer a never-been-dated 16-year-old, a hopeless wallflower, a poor thing. I’m attractive. I’m interesting. I’m normal. I can look at the models in World and say, “I am one of you. I know how it is. I’m your equal.” I even wonder if I’m not a little better than they are. After all, they’re only drawings on shiny pages. With their long legs, big shoes, and small, skinny bodies, they remind me of something—I can’t think what. I’m too tired to think.

When I was growing up, my body struggled with gamma globulin anemia. I had a hard time fighting off germs, so I got sick a lot.
One night I woke up with painful earaches. They hurt so badly that I thought my head was going to explode! I remember my mother and father coming into my room. My mother sat on the side of the bed and cradled me in her arms. Then my father placed his hands on my head and gave me a priesthood blessing. In that blessing, He told me that my Father in Heaven knew me. He was aware of my pain. He would bless me to sleep through the rest of the night.
I soon relaxed, fell asleep, and slept through the night and late into the morning. When I woke up, my ears felt better. But it still took several years before I was completely healed from my illness.
Over the next several years, my father continued to give me priesthood blessings to give me strength. He taught me that those blessings were opportunities for Heavenly Father to speak to me. My sickness became a way for Heavenly Father to help my faith to grow.

Consider Sister Hansen, the faithful teacher of a Laurel class of lovely young girls in a small mission branch in Canada. How she prayed for inspiration that she might teach well the precious girls in her class. Particularly did she pray for Julie, one who had been subjected to great stress and temptation to leave the pathway of truth and follow the detour of sin. Through the constant persuasions of her classmates at school, Julie had agreed to follow such a detour. The plan was designed: she would attend opening exercises of Mutual, even the first portion of the class, that she might appear on the roll as being present; and then there would be the sound of an automobile horn to announce to her that her girl friend and their dates, who were older and far more experienced than Julie, were at hand and the night of the carefully arranged escapade of sin would begin. Then she would be one of the inner circle.

Before calling the roll that night, this humble, loving teacher announced to the class that a shipment from Church headquarters had arrived at her home that very day. She had opened the packages and found copies of a pamphlet by Elder Mark E. Petersen. Its subject, chastity. Sister Hansen said: “I feel impressed to leave for another week our lesson scheduled for tonight and want rather to review with you the inspiration of this pamphlet. We will each read a paragraph or two aloud, that all might participate.” Sister Hansen looked at each of her precious girls and then said, “Julie, will you begin?” Julie looked at the clock—just two minutes before the scheduled rendezvous. She began to read; her heart was touched, her conscience awakened, her determination renewed. She scarcely heard the repeated sound of the automobile horn. She remained throughout the class. The temptation to detour from God’s approved way had been averted. Satan had been frustrated. A soul had been saved. A prayer had been answered.

I spoke the other day with one of the most enthusiastic converts I have ever met. We were in Chicago for a big meeting which brought together some 20,000 members of the Church in the great United Center, where the Chicago Bulls play basketball. Randy Chiostri, a new member of the Church, drove us about while we were there. All during those long rides in the Chicago traffic he was talking about missionary work, praising the Church as the most wonderful institution in the world, talking of the gospel and the plan of salvation as the greatest thing that had ever come into his life. Randy’s introduction to the Church came when he dated Nancy. He took her to dinner. On the first date she said she drank no liquor. She would not take wine. How curious, he thought. She said it was against her faith. Smoking was also against her faith. Her faith became the subject of their conversations.
He married her on the one-year anniversary of that first date. But he could not accept her religion. It took him almost eight years to overcome his doubts.
One pair of missionaries after another taught him. Finally, he was touched by the Spirit. He was baptized last March.
He visited the Hill Cumorah. He visited Nauvoo. He said: “I visited 17 temples. I visited them on the outside but not on the inside.” He went to every temple he could get to. He now looks forward to the day that he will visit them on the inside. That first inside visit, in Chicago, will be in April. He will receive his endowment, and then the next day he and Nancy will be sealed.
After his baptism, Randy was immediately put to work. He was ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. After being a member for about nine months, he was ordained an elder in the Melchizedek Priesthood. He loves the Church. He is consumed with his love of the gospel. It has become the major interest of his life. He cannot stop talking about it. Each night and morning he gets on his knees and thanks the Lord for the wondrous thing that has come into his life.
I learned a few things from Randy as I listened to him. The first is the tremendous power of the example of a member of the Church. It was Nancy’s firm but quiet stance on that first date concerning no liquor and no wine which caught his attention. The missionaries worked on him through the years, but she was the key that unlocked his heart to a love for the Lord, and his mind to an understanding of the plan of salvation.
The second thing I learned is that you never give up when there is the slightest spark of interest. It took him nearly eight years to come into the Church. His mind was open, but there was a lurking fear over taking so bold a step. He was setting aside the traditions of his forebears and stepping into something new and strange and difficult to understand.
Third, he was put to work immediately following his baptism. His bishop saw that he had something challenging to do. Was he qualified to handle the assignment? The bishop gave that question very little attention. He saw an eager new convert, and he gave him a responsibility on which to grow.
The bishop saw that he had friends in the Church. The first, of course, was his wife, Nancy, and there were a few more able people who could answer his questions and listen patiently when he did not understand. He was not left friendless, to grope through the dark. He had those who were willing to take the time to talk with him.
Does he know all there is to know about the Church? No, of course not. He is constantly learning, and with that learning is a growing enthusiasm.
He is excited about what he has found. He is eager to receive the higher blessings of the temple. His testimony has become strong and secure within less than a year’s time. I believe he is a 100 percent convert, and his enthusiasm is contagious. We need more of this kind, and we need many more to work with them.

Joseph wrote these feelings to his wife in an 1832 letter from New York City, where he had gone with Newel K. Whitney to buy goods for the Whitney store in Kirtland, Ohio. He had spent some time walking through the “most splendid part” of the city:
“The buildings are truly great and wonderful to the astonishing of every beholder and the language of my heart is like this: Can the great God of all the earth, maker of all things magnificent and splendid, be displeased with man for all these great inventions sought out by them? My answer is no. It cannot be, seeing these works are calculated to make men comfortable, wise, and happy. Therefore not for the works can the Lord be displeased, only against man is the anger of the Lord kindled because they give him not the glory.”
Then he wrote:
“I returned to my room to meditate and calm my mind. And behold, the thoughts of home, of Emma [his wife] and Julia [his daughter] rushes upon my mind like a flood and I could wish for a moment to be with them. My breast is filled with all the feelings and tenderness of a parent and a husband. … Yet when I reflect upon this great city … my bowels are filled with compassion towards them and I am determined to lift up my voice … and leave the event with God.”
He concluded,
“I prefer reading and praying and holding communion with the Holy Spirit and writing to you than walking the streets and beholding the distraction of man.”25

In the hallways at the Finnish high school, students rushed from one class to another, their chatter and laughter filling the air.
But here in the recital room, with its gilded trim and arching windows, the noise was distant and muffled. Here, where fifteen-year-old Säde (pronounced saw-day) Metsätähti was about to play the piano, there was peace.
Säde could have played many things—classical or popular. But right now, she had time to play and sing only one song. And so she played her favorite. The tune was simple, but memorable. Saria Karhunen, sixteen, joined Säde on the chorus. They’ve been friends since they were children, and somehow that friendship showed as the harmony of their voices built power in the song.
The girls finished. “Singing that,” Saria said, “is like singing a prayer.” Säde nodded her agreement.
In English the song, written by Latter-day Saints, is titled “Look Inside.” But the Finnish version, translated by Säde’s mother, Virpi, expresses the idea even more strongly. “Sydämees kun katsot, ”it says, “When You Look to Your Heart.”
“I know other people wrote the words and music,” said Säde. “But every time I play it, I feel like it’s my song. I think everybody—everything—has a song of its own, if you just listen close enough to hear it.”
The second bell rang, and that meant the brief performance was over. Säde and Saria are on a strict schedule at the Puolalanmaen Koulu, a school for students with musical aptitude. In addition to music, Säde has classes in Swedish, math, Finnish, gymnastics, English, biology, geography, and French.
She and Saria also study seminary every day and meet once a week with the other seminary students in their ward.
That evening was activity night at the chapel, and seminary students, institute students, Scouts, family history workers, and other ward members had gathered for various purposes—but all as brothers and sisters.
“How can you get closer to Jesus Christ?” asked Auli Haikkola, the seminary teacher.
“Study the scriptures,” said Aki Keskinen.
“Pray,” said Todd Katschke. “Go to church.”
“Talk about the Savior with your family,” said Jukka Merenluoto.
“Do good for someone else,” said Joni Mikkonen.
After class, several of the seminary students lingered to visit. They talked about how seminary helps prepare young people for missions, about getting up early to study the scriptures, about prayer and families and priesthood and the Spirit and a dozen other things youth all over the Church have in common.
“Most people in Finland don’t talk about religion,” Maria Sokoli said. “They go to church once or twice a year. They don’t understand how it can be such a big part of my life.”
“My nonmember friends respect me,” said Heidi Hankiala. “But it still gets tough when they all drink and do other things I won’t do.”
“Maria, Heidi, Saria, and I all grew up in the Church,” Säde explained. “Most of the people in this ward have grown up with the gospel. But now the Church is growing fast, and I see the day when it will grow faster and faster, when there will be lots of young people joining, not only in Finland, but in Russia, in Eastern Europe—all over the world. The Church is the hope of the future, and the youth are the hope of the Church.”
Too soon, the conversations were over. The youth said good-bye and departed. The seminary room was deserted, and the building was almost empty.
That was when the song began again.
Waiting for her mother, Säde had found a piano. Not an elegant one like the black enamel grand piano in the recital room at school. This was a brown upright, with a key or two chipped and a scratch in the finish. But the melody she played was the same: “When You Look to Your Heart.”
The song of faith continued.

Looking back, I can think of many Good Samaritans who have influenced my life and the lives of others by going out of their ways to serve and teach. One of these Samaritans was a great-great-uncle of mine, who was in one of the first groups of pioneers to settle in Utah.
One severe winter he was dispatched to Carbon County to help other pioneers who were moving to that area but had been stranded by terrible snowstorms. Without hesitation my uncle responded to the call for help. He put the needs of others above his own and risked his life to bring many to safety. That story has been a source of inspiration to me. It has helped me to be more appreciative of my pioneer heritage and the people who willingly made sacrifices, facing troubles head-on.

Let me tell you about a little girl who is well on her way. Eight-year-old Lindsay had studied well for her math test at school. She said: “When the test began, my friend leaned over and asked if I would help her with the answers. I thought of the family home evenings we have at the first of every school year. Dad reminds us that we should always do our own work. He says it’s better to be honest than to cheat for a higher grade. I knew if I helped my friend cheat, I would be cheating too. So I shook my head, no. The next day, the teacher called my friend and me out into the hall and said our answers were the same. It was easy for me to look at the teacher and tell her I didn’t cheat. When I looked at my friend, she was crying. She told the teacher she had looked on my paper. I was really sorry for my friend, but I was very glad I had been honest.”

Dad was sitting on the front lawn, cleaning his bicycle. “Can I help you, Dad?” Michael asked.
“No thank you, Son—it’s too messy. Go ask your mother if you can help her.”
Mom was in back of the garage, painting a bookshelf.
“Can I help you, Mom?”
“No thank you, honey—this paint is sticky,” Mom said. “Go ask Mary if you can help her.”
His sister was in the kitchen, baking cookies.
“Can I help you, Mary?”
“No thank you, Michael—this oven is hot.”
Michael walked sadly out of the kitchen. “There’s no one I can help,” he said.
Just then the baby cried.
“The baby’s crying, and I can’t leave this to get her,” Dad called to Mom.
“I’m too messy to get the baby,” Mom called to Mary.
“I have to take the cookies out of the oven right now, or they’ll burn. I can’t get the baby either,” Mary called back to Mom and Dad.
Dad cleaned the bicycle grease off his hands and went to get the baby. Mom cleaned the paint off her hands and went to get the baby. Mary took the cookies out of the oven and went to get the baby. When they opened the door to the baby’s room, they saw her laughing and playing in her crib.
“I helped her,” Michael said proudly. “I sang a little song and shared my toys with her.”
The baby laughed, waving a toy car up and down.

I was thinking how wonderful it would be to witness such a powerful response to prayer. Then I realized I already had.

I was working with my father on the family ranch in Robertson, Wyoming, USA. It was my mother’s birthday, and her parents had invited the family to dinner at their place on Hillard Flat, east of Evanston. In order not to disappoint my mother by arriving late, my father decided to take a shortcut through the hills. Unfortunately, April was way too early in the year to attempt that particular shortcut. As we drove into the hills, it became obvious that we were the first to attempt to cross there that spring. There was still a lot of snow.

The first part of the journey went well, but then we started to find larger and larger drifts, and it became harder and harder to get around them. At one point my father, in his pride-and-joy Suburban, decided go around a large drift by climbing up the side of a hill. The truck was unable to negotiate the slippery terrain. We tipped on an angle, with my father’s side of the Suburban completely embedded in the drift. We were completely helpless and unable to continue.

I was only 10 years old at the time, and I found the adventure quite exciting. We finally had to climb out the window to get out. I did not understand the serious nature of our situation. This was long before the age of cell phones. No one knew that we had taken the shortcut. We were around 12 miles from any homes or the highway. The temperature was plummeting, and unbeknownst to me, my father was worried that we would freeze to death.

I still remember kneeling in prayer. My father asked only two things. First, which way we should walk. Second, could my mother please know something was wrong and send help. I don’t know if my father actually said, “Please, don’t let us freeze,” but I’m sure that was on his mind.

The two requests he voiced in prayer were answered almost immediately. My father felt like we should return the way we had come. At the same time (we later learned), my mother was doing the dishes when she felt distinctly that something was wrong. She counseled with my grandfather, Joseph Barker, and they also prayed. After a short time, my grandfather said, “I know where they are. They’re at Horseshoe Bend.”

Horseshoe Bend is exactly where the Suburban was embedded in the snow.

Grandpa Barker organized two rescue parties. One, led by my uncle Brent Barker, would try to go in where we would have come out. They made the attempt but ran into drifts that were impossible to pass. Grandpa and two other uncles, my father’s brothers Max and Richard Brough, came the long way around and entered at the same place where we had started. They soon found one lonely set of tracks entering and nothing returning.

In the meantime, my father kept talking to me as we were walking. He kept asking if I was tired and if I felt like I was falling asleep. I remember thinking those were strange questions. Of course I was cold—very cold and very tired. But where would I sleep? In the snow? (I have since learned that being tired and sleepy may be signs that you’re freezing to death. My dad was worried.)

After hours of walking, we finally saw the headlights of our rescuers’ trucks. When they reached us, my mother leapt out and ran to me. She swept me up and carried me to the warm vehicle. I also remember her shaking her finger at dad—we all know how mama bear reacts when baby bear is in trouble! Let’s just say that my father’s reception was not as warm as mine.

Soon the travelers were aboard a train going to Nebraska, where the railroad ended. Then their belongings were loaded onto ox-drawn wagons for the long trek across the plains to Utah.
The route lay along the Platte River that had to be forded several times. On one such occasion, someone took Albertina from her tired mother and set her on one of the loaded wagons being drawn through the water by oxen. All went well until the animals tried clambering up the slipper bank and the load shifted, throwing the little girl into the river.
“Mother! Mother!” Albertina cried as she struggled to keep her head above water.
Anna plunged into the cold water and was immediately caught in the strong current. She managed to catch hold of Albertina, but she was unable to swim as her heavy, sodden skirt wrapped around her, pinning her arms and legs. She struggled vainly to reach the shore as the current dragged them into deeper water.
The captain saw Anna’s plight but stood by helplessly. Suddenly, as though in answer to Anna’s silent prayer, her feet brushed against a submerged sandbar. Still clutching Albertina, Anna’s floundering subsided, and she gained a temporary footing on the sand just below the surface of the swirling water. A moment later a rope was thrown to them and, after a short struggle in the cold water, friendly hands reached out and helped the two to safety.
That evening as they sat by the campfire drying their wet clothes, Albertina looked up at her mother and said, “Mama, I was afraid when I fell in. Weren’t you afraid too?”
“Yes,” replied Anna. “But when those you love are in danger, you don’t let fear keep you from trying with all your might to save them. And remember, Albertina, our Savior is always near to hear our prayers for help.”

To illustrate the second great stabilizing force, I would relate another experience. Some years ago, I was serving as a young bishop. We were holding a ward social around a swimming pool near the apartment where most of the ward members lived. I was introduced to a new member of the ward, a young woman in her twenties by the name of Carol. Carol had been afflicted with cerebral palsy since infancy. She walked with great difficulty; her hands were crippled. Her kind and dear face was also affected, as was her speech. But, as I would come to understand, to know Carol was to love her.

I had only to wait a few minutes to begin learning the great lesson she would teach. While we were talking, we watched a tall, handsome, dark-haired, very athletic young man dive off the diving board and seem to injure himself slightly. He got out of the pool holding his neck and went and sat under a tree. I watched as Carol struggled to prepare a plate of food and with great difficulty delivered it to him—a guileless act of service, of “good works.” Carol’s good works became a legend. She cared for the sick; she took food to the hungry; she drove people places (an experience that delivered you pale and shaken but always in one piece); she comforted; she lifted; she blessed.

I walked with her one day on the sidewalk that passed through the apartment complex where she lived. From the windows, from the balconies, from the porches came cries of “Hi, Carol!” “How are you doing, Carol?” “Come up and see us, Carol.” And occasionally someone would say, “Oh, hi, Bishop.” It was clear that Carol was loved and greatly accepted through her wonderful good works.

My most vivid recollection of Carol occurred in the spring of that year. The ward had agreed to participate in the stake five-kilometer fun run—an oxymoronic term, to be sure. Carol wanted to be with the rest of the ward members, but we didn’t see how it would be possible. For her, just walking was a great difficulty. Nevertheless, she was determined. She struggled and trained each day to increase her endurance.

The race finished in the stadium. Two or three hundred of us were in the stands by the finish line, drinking juice and catching our breath. And then we remembered Carol—she was left somewhere back on the course. As we ran out of the entrance to the stadium, she came into view, struggling to breathe, barely able to walk, but determined to finish. As she started around the track toward the finish line, a wonderful thing happened. Suddenly the track was lined on both sides with hundreds of cheering friends. Others were running alongside to support and hold her up. Carol “of great good works” had finished the race.

It’s part of the Soviet Union now, the village in Karelia where I spent my childhood. The Russians annexed it, along with the rest of the Karelian region, after the two countries fought a war in 1939–40. But when I was young, the land of lakes, marshes, streams, cold weather, and hills was part of Finland. And that meant it was a land of skiing and of ski races.
Each February, when the worst of the winter chill was over, the townsfolk would break free from hibernation and gather at a large sand pit on the outskirts of the village. The sand pit was the site for the finish line of the cross-country competition, and for good reasons. For one thing, the hole torn from the side of the hill by summertime construction workers was large enough not only for the finish line, but for a food stand as well. On race day, the air was rich with the aroma of gooey, steaming meat pies and sausages. For another thing, the snow-covered sides of the sand pit formed a natural amphitheater. Standing around its sides and rim, spectators could clearly view the final stretch of the course, and the entire town knew who the victor was the moment he crossed the line.
There were many preparations for the contest. Race officials tied blue paper armbands on some of the older children, authorizing them to monitor crowds and keep competition lanes uncluttered. Trails were marked for the different events—courses of short duration for younger children, longer ones for older children; separate trails for male and female teenagers and for men and women; and even a grandpa trail for the older folks, who always did themselves proud in their own special race. Each group followed its own path, clearly marked by colored paper streamers. But the biggest event of all was the men’s 30-kilometer race. The winner was the star of the village for a year, the man who had proved what he was made of. Many a quiet farmer, shoemaker, or storekeeper imagined himself gliding past his neighbors and on to victory.
As children, though, we had a hero of our own. We called him Tappi-Eiska. He was the smallest and shortest possible full-grown man without being a midget. He was also the nicest, funnest person we knew outside our family circles. Maybe his shortness helped us relate to him, because we could look at him eye-to-eye. Maybe we understood the straggles he’d been through because of his size. “Eiska” is probably a shortened form of Einari, which could have been his true first name. But “Tappi,” in Finnish, means “stump” or “shortie,” and it might well be that originally the nickname was intended as an insult. It didn’t matter to us children. He was our candidate for skier of the year.
The problem was, Tappi-Eiska wasn’t much of a skier. The first year he raced in the men’s division was a fiasco. The men had to go around a ten-kilometer course three times, and when the winner came in, Tappi-Eiska was just finishing his first lap. By the time Tappi did finish, the other skiers were all in the sauna or on the way home. Only a few disappointed children waited for their tired friend at the finish line.
The rest of that winter and all of the next one, Tappi-Eiska spent every spare minute skiing on that trail. In the summer he swam and rowed a big army boat around in the Vuoksi River. He didn’t grow taller, but he did grow muscular. We children were excited, certain that all those muscles and all that practice would make him a winner at last. We thought a man should win just because he was nice. It always happened that way in the movies.
But Tappi-Eiska didn’t win that year, either. This time, he crossed the line with the last group of skiers. At least he wasn’t hours behind, and some other people besides us saw him complete the race. We figured his legs were just too short to compete with the big guys. Maybe he’d even give up now.
But during the next year, Tappi-Eiska showed us what the Finnish word sisu means. In English, it translates as determination or spunk. And that’s what this man had. He went on training and training and training. By the time of the next ski contest, we knew Tappi would win. Of course, we had felt that way every year, but this time it seemed possible all over again.
The striding skiers kicked up snow as they raced into the forest. Through one lap, through two, and back into the forest again. When we knew they would be coming into sight, some of us, on skis ourselves, moved out from the sand hole to meet the winner, sure that it would be our hero.
We waited in the cold. The trees were white with frost. Smoke from the few visible chimneys stretched straight up in gray ribbons. Our cheeks were red. But then, suddenly, we were warm all over! Emerging from the edge of the forest was the shortest man in town, now the biggest man in town—Tappi-Eiska! He was ahead of everyone else—everyone! Even the adults rose to their feet to cheer him on.
He came to the hill. We could see his short legs pumping so fast we could hardly focus on them. Then behind him came another man, a huge, lumbering giant! I’m sure many of us wished inside that somehow this long-legged pest would trip or break a ski, anything to keep him from passing. But as the two neared the top of the sand hole, the larger skier slipped past and crossed the line first.
How often in the years since then have I felt sorry for the man who came in first. Few of us cheered the victor. But when Tappi-Eiska crossed that line, bedlam broke loose. We followed him on our skis down into the pit, and no older children with blue armbands could have stopped us. We mobbed around Tappi-Eiska, then threw him into the air, skis and all. Many townspeople, who knew of Tappi’s struggles, joined us. Some were weeping openly. We completely forgot that he had come in second, not first. This stubbornly determined little man had shown us the value of not giving up and had become the hero of my childhood.
That was 1938. The war came the next year and took many things away. There were no ski contests. I never got my chance to be one of the older children wearing a blue armband and monitoring the crowd. And Tappi-Eiska never got another chance to prove he could cross the finish line first. But for me, and for the others, he would never have to. He had already proved he was a true winner in every sense of the word.

During World War II, President James E. Faust, then a young enlisted man in the United States Army, applied for officer candidate school. He appeared before a board of inquiry composed of what he described as “hard-bitten career soldier[s].” After a while their questions turned to matters of religion. The final questions were these:
“In times of war should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
President Faust relates:
“I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs but did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, ‘I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.’
“I left the hearing resigned to the fact that [they] would not like the answers I had given … and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for officer’s candidate school! …
“This was one of the critical crossroads of my life.”1

Sunshine highlighted the autumn leaves as Lottie and her collie, King, picked their way down the rocky path to the springhouse to fetch a crock of butter. She held up her long skirt that she wore to school so as not to dirty it. Despite Mama’s lecture, however, she had discarded the stiff high-button shoes in the weeds. The cool grass chilled the bottoms of her calloused feet. She hadn’t worn shoes all summer (except to church because Mama insisted), and she hated to start now. Mama said that a ten-year-old girl should act like a lady, but Lottie didn’t feel like a lady as she ducked under a low limb of an apple tree.
As she opened the wide, heavy door of the springhouse, she felt a chill sweep past her, and she was grateful for King’s companionship. Although Lottie had three older sisters, they stayed at the house to help Mama with the three younger girls and her little brother.
It was damp and dark in the springhouse. The icy springwater flowed briskly through the long troughs where they kept their perishable foods. Maybe I’d better get one more crock, thought Lottie. It takes a lot of butter for hot cakes for all of us. Just then Lottie lost her footing on the slippery floor. As she grabbed a shelf to break her fall, the fancy butter crock that she had just chosen slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a sickening crash! Pieces of blue pottery scattered in all directions!
Tears welled up in Lottie’s eyes as she remembered Papa’s words of caution: “These are hard times and we cannot afford any waste.”
Fearful of being late for school and of getting a tongue-lashing from Mama, while King licked up the splattered butter, she stuffed as many pieces as she could find into her apron pocket, grabbed another crock of butter, and hurried toward the house.
Lottie quickly pushed the pieces of broken crockery into a crevice in the old stone fence at the edge of the field and ran back to the house. As she neared it, the smell of bacon floated out with the chimney smoke to meet her.
“What kept you, Charlotte?” asked Papa as Lottie appeared in the doorway.
“I guess I’m a little slow this morning, Papa,” Lottie answered, trying hard to smile. She felt Papa’s sideway glance every so often during breakfast. It was a questioning expression that Papa always wore when he knew that there was something that he should know but didn’t.
“Anything special going on at school today?” he asked.
“No, not much,” Lottie answered, trying to be cheerful.
“I have a busy day ahead of me,” he said. “I need to mend some fences to get ready for the new herd.”
Lottie nearly choked on a bite of bacon. What if Papa checks that particular fence? she wondered. It wouldn’t have been such a big thing to Mama had it not been her favorite crock, nor to Papa had it been empty, nor to herself if careful inventory would not be taken, but she knew that an accounting must come.
It came sooner than Lottie had anticipated, for Papa was waiting outside the barn as the girls came home from school. “Come into the barn, girls. We need to talk.”
The four girls looked at each other, recognizing the concern in Papa’s voice.
“I happened onto these pieces of Mama’s best crock today while I was mending the stone fence,” he said, displaying the broken pieces. “Who can tell me how they got there?”
A big lump jumped into Lottie’s throat. She hung her head. The older girls looked at each other and then back at Papa.
“How about you, Charlotte?” Papa’s voice, although even and mild-tempered, thundered in Lottie’s ears.
“I don’t know, Papa.” It was a lie, and she knew it—and she knew that Papa knew it. But somehow, down deep, she secretly hoped that he didn’t.
“I suppose that the wind broke it and scattered the pieces into the fence,” Papa said, looking hard into each girl’s eyes. Finally he sighed and said, “All right, get to your chores.”
Lottie’s mind wasn’t on her work. It was on her last Primary lesson. “The best remedy for a guilty conscience,” Sister Thompson had said, “is to repent and admit what you’ve done wrong.” Gathering her courage, Lottie walked slowly back to the barn.
Papa looked up, pitchfork in hand. “You want to tell me something, Charlotte?” After a long, awkward silence, he prodded gently, “It was you, wasn’t it, Lottie?”
“Yes, Papa. I suppose that I have to tell Mama too.”
“It’s up to you. You’ve always been taught to do what’s right. Listen to your conscience; then decide.”
As Lottie dragged into the house, Mama was fixing supper. The tears Lottie hated were back again.
“Oh, Mama,” Lottie sobbed, “I broke it.”
“Broke what?” asked Mama, giving her a hug.
“Your best crock—and King ate it!” Lottie clung to Mama and cried even harder.
“He ate the crock?” Mama smiled and wiped Lottie’s tears.
“No, the butter,” Lottie explained, still sniffing. “Mama, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I’m glad that you were honest and told me.”
“I just had to tell you and Papa, Mama. I felt so bad.”
“That’s a thing called conscience,” said Mama.
“I guess I just found out that I have one,” Lottie said, finally able to smile.

“Not Ivy! She’s a girl,” Braden whispered behind Adam.
But Adam was team captain for dodgeball for the day, and he had made his choice. “I pick Ivy,” he repeated a little louder. Tyler, the other team captain, smirked. Even Coach Garcia looked surprised at Adam’s second pick.
Ivy looked surprised too and then shyly stepped forward. Braden groaned.
Ivy wasn’t just any girl. She was the smallest girl in the class. She didn’t look very fast, and the ball seemed bigger than she was. “She probably can’t even lift the ball,” Braden said as Ivy walked over.
“Maybe she’ll be our secret weapon,” Adam said, trying to sound sure. But that’s not why he had picked her. Ivy had once told Adam she didn’t like it when they played sports because she was always picked last. The other boys teased Ivy, but Mom and Dad had told Adam that boys should show respect for girls. So he picked Ivy. As he watched Tyler pick the biggest boy in class, Adam gulped. What would this game be like?
After everyone was on a team, Coach Garcia blew the whistle, and the teams ran to opposite ends of the court. Coach Garcia handed Tyler the ball, and Tyler scanned Adam’s team before he focused on Ivy. He pulled back his arm and let the ball fly.
Bam! The ball smacked the ground and bounced without hitting anyone. Adam blinked. Ivy had moved just in time. Everyone around him seemed surprised, but Adam just smiled. Maybe picking Ivy had been a good idea after all.
The game continued. Tyler kept trying to hit Ivy with the ball, but she kept dodging and diving out of the way. No one could hit her with a ball. Tyler and some of his teammates were so busy trying to get Ivy out that they didn’t spend much time aiming for anyone else. Adam grinned—Ivy’s size actually made her better at dodgeball because being small and fast made her harder to hit.
At last Adam’s team won the game. “Secret weapon was right,” Braden said. “Ivy’s pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Next time, she’s on my team. We’ll win for sure!” Ivy smiled as she walked back to class, surrounded by teammates.
Adam couldn’t stop smiling as he followed the group. He had been nice to Ivy, and he had helped the other boys respect girls a little more. The greatest secret weapon wasn’t a secret at all—it was just being kind.

Ten years later I came back to my father’s home for a time. My father, who was the ward mission leader, invited me to listen as the missionaries taught two young ladies in his home. The missionaries challenged us to ask Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I accepted the challenge and spent 14 hours reading, meditating, and praying about Joseph Smith. It was a spiritual experience that is sacred to me. I read Joseph Smith’s history in the Pearl of Great Price twice that night. I prayed many times and stayed up all night. At nine o’clock the next morning I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that the gospel was true.
I went to the sister missionaries’ house and asked for baptism. They explained that they needed to teach me seven discussions. I told them, “Give me all seven right now. I need to be baptized.” Two days later, I was. I began at once to work in the Church and to study everything the Church published in Portuguese. I enjoyed it all immensely, and my testimony has been strong ever since. The Church and the gospel have given me everything I have, including my family.

When I was about nine years old, I had a bad toothache. The pain became unbearable, but we had no money to go to a dentist. At the time, I lived with my angel grandmother in Mexico.
With tears in her eyes, she asked me, “Do you believe in Jesus and that He can help you?”
I told her I did. She asked me to go to the next room, kneel, and pray for a miracle. I poured out my heart in prayer, but nothing happened. Frustrated, I put as much pressure as I could on my jaw and offered a second prayer. Soon the pain was gone! When I ran to tell my grandmother, I found her on her knees, pleading with God to help her little grandson. I have never forgotten that scene, and I am thankful to my grandmother.

During general conference in 2001, President Gordon B. Hinckley introduced the Perpetual Education Fund. I needed the opportunities that such a program offered so I could lift myself economically, but I wondered whether I could meet the program’s requirements.
During sacrament meeting a few months later, our stake president spoke about the program. To my great surprise, I learned that I might qualify after all. I thought to myself, “This is my last chance. I can’t pass it up.”
I then began to consider the responsibilities the program would require of me, and I feared that I would fail and once again fall short in Heavenly Father’s eyes. But I overcame these thoughts, and gathering information from the local institute director, I applied. Considering my past, I had little hope that I would be accepted. I felt that I did not deserve such a blessing even though I had repented and returned to church.
When I received a positive response from Church headquarters, my family and I rejoiced. The amount granted was not enough for the entire academic year, but I went ahead and registered for a major in computer programming. I received high grades and earned a scholarship that paid for the rest of my schooling.
Since then I have done everything in my power to show my gratitude. I work hard, I study hard, and I fulfill my responsibilities in the Church. I attend institute classes to try to make up for the years I missed and to learn what the Lord expects of me.
The most important thing I know is that I have been forgiven for all the bad things I did in the past. All of my plans for the future are based on this knowledge. I will continue to help my family, but now I will be able to do so in a better manner.