Gospel Story Finder

When I was 11, my family moved to West Germany. My father and my mother ran a laundry to make a living, and I was the laundry delivery boy. I saw some shiny red bicycles, and I wished I could have one to make my deliveries. But I needed a heavy-duty bicycle to pull the cart with the laundry on it. I rode around pulling that heavy laundry cart before school and after school. It was hard seeing the other children play. But everyone in our family had to work hard, and I was an important part of the family business.
As I grew older, I learned about the blessings of doing things that at the time you don’t realize are important and good for you. When I was very little, I came down with a lung disease, but no one knew it at the time. When I grew older, I joined the air force. The doctors saw spots on my lungs. Because of the hard work of pedaling that heavy load, somehow my body had healed itself. I had built up endurance. I had built up strength. The doctors said that the disease took care of itself and that I passed my physical. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to become a pilot.
As a pilot, I flew all over the world. I never tired of looking at the stars, the clouds, the landscapes. I saw the beauty of the different countries with their different cultures. I know from going to those places and seeing the people and seeing the Church in those different places that the gospel is for everyone, no matter what nation you live in or what your traditions are. It is the gospel of Jesus Christ. The word of God—whether it is written in the scriptures or spoken by the living prophets, whether we read it in Church magazines or hear it at general conferences—is for everyone.

After 11 exciting years of working at that job, I was in a meeting one night with those developing an essential part of the nuclear power plant. My secretary came in and said, “There’s a man on the phone who says if I tell you his name you’ll come to the phone.”

I said, “What’s his name?”

She said, “Harold B. Lee.”

I said, “He’s right.” I took the phone call. Elder Lee, who later became President of the Church, asked if he could see me that very night. He was in New York City, and I was in Washington, D.C. I flew up to meet him, and we had an interview that led to my call to be a mission president.

The head of the program I was working for was Admiral Hyman Rickover, a hard-working, demanding individual. I knew him well enough that I felt I needed to tell him as soon as possible that I was being called. As I explained the mission call to him and that it would mean I would have to quit my job, he became rather upset. He said some unrepeatable things, broke the paper tray on his desk, and in the comments that followed clearly established two points:
“Scott, what you are doing in this defense program is so vital that it will take a year to replace you, so you can’t go. Second, if you do go, you are a traitor to your country.”

I said, “I can train my replacement in the two remaining months, and there won’t be any risk to the country.”

There was more conversation, and he finally said, “I never will talk to you again. I don’t want to see you again. You are finished, not only here, but don’t ever plan to work in the nuclear field again.”

I responded, “Admiral, you can bar me from the office, but unless you prevent me, I am going to turn this assignment over to another individual.”

True to his word, the admiral ceased to speak to me. When critical decisions had to be made, he would send a messenger, or I would communicate through a third party. He assigned an individual to take my responsibility, and I trained him.

It wasn’t going to be hard for me to leave; I knew I had been called as a mission president by the Lord. But I knew that my decision would affect others. In the Idaho Falls, Idaho, area were many members of the Church whose jobs depended upon working in the nuclear program. I didn’t want to cause them harm. I didn’t know what to do. My heart kept saying, “Is this going to turn out all right, or will somebody be innocently hurt who depends on our program for livelihood?”

As I prayed and pondered about it, I had a feeling about the hymn “Do What Is Right.” A line from the hymn would come to mind: “Do what is right; let the consequence follow.” Other words from the hymn were reinforcing such as “God will protect you; then do what is right!” (Hymns, no. 237).

My last day in the office I asked for an appointment with the admiral. His secretary gasped. I went with a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hand. He looked at me and said, “Sit down, Scott, what do you have? I have tried every way I can to force you to change. What is it you have?” There followed a very interesting, quiet conversation. There was more listening this time.

He said he would read the Book of Mormon. Then something happened I never thought would occur. He added, “When you come back from the mission, I want you to call me. There will be a job for you.”

But a mystery remained to be solved.
Some years after my conversion, when I visited father, I asked, “Dad, why did you never mention the gospel to your children?”
He took a deep breath, looked out the window for a moment, and then he said, “I never mentioned the gospel or the Church to any of you because I did not feel worthy to do it. But I never ceased to pray that one day all of you would hear it preached by an authoritative voice and be converted. I have yearned for that blessing, in spite of my sins.
“Actually, there was a time when my father’s family was very strong in the Church. My parents were converted in the early years of this century and raised us children in accordance with the gospel. My mother was local Relief Society president. But when they emigrated to California in 1926, I stayed behind to marry your mother. Her parents were bitterly opposed to the Church, and under the stresses and strains of that period, I soon became inactive and lost contact. Although I never doubted the Church, I began to do things far removed from its teachings. My conscience would haunt me concerning you children; but once a break in communication is made, it is very hard to reestablish them. I am grateful that you children have joined the Church. I imagine the elders were surprised as well. They came looking for me, an inactive member, and found my children who were interested and wanted to know more about the gospel.”

I remember a bishop who treated me as if I were already what I had the potential to become in priesthood power. He called me one Sunday when I was a priest. He said he needed me to be his companion to visit some members of our ward. He made it sound as if I were his only hope for success. He didn’t need me. He had excellent counselors in his bishopric.
We visited a penniless and hungry widow. He wanted me to help him reach her heart, challenge her to make and use a budget, and promise her that she could rise to be in a position not only to take care of herself but also to help others.
We went next to comfort two little girls living in a difficult situation. As we walked away, the bishop said quietly to me, “Those children will never forget that we came to them.”
At the next house, I saw how to invite a less-active man to come back to the Lord by convincing him the ward members needed him.
That bishop was a Melchizedek Priesthood holder who was raising my sights and giving me a boost by example. He taught me to have the power and the courage to go anywhere in service for the Lord. He is long gone to his reward, but I still remember him because he reached down to lift me up when I was an inexperienced Aaronic Priesthood holder. I learned later that he saw me on a future priesthood path of greater responsibilities, then beyond my own vision.

It may have happened several months ago, but being part of the Masskara opening number for the cultural show we staged during the welcome dinner for the Tabernacle Choir in February and during the area broadcast with Elder and Sister Stevenson in May still inspires me.
Looking back, I had to sacrifice my weekends to attend the practices. There were times when I felt so tired, especially since I had to juggle family, a ton of school work, and practices while also waking up early, traveling, dealing with sore muscles, and more.
Despite this, I knew that I was doing it for the Lord and that all of my efforts would be worth it. I felt the Lord’s hand every step of the way. On top of that, I got to know so many people, built unexpected friendships, and had so much fun!
We were only given less than two months to practice compared to previous cultural presentations which had several months of preparation, so I was amazed that we were able to learn the steps quickly. I was also inspired by the hard work of those around me, especially the trainers and those who arranged the show.
They were sacrificing so much of their time and effort (to the point that some even sacrificed their sleep), and they were so patient with us. They cared for each one of us. I felt this the most when our trainers gave each of us awards that were well thought out and personalized, which deeply touched my heart. Our trainers also pushed for us to bond with one another, and I think this bond we have with our fellow dancers would not exist without them.
On the day of the performance, we all gave our best. When I saw how the Tabernacle Choir members enjoyed our performances so much, and how they were moved to tears, it made me feel that all of the efforts and sacrifices we made were worth it. I was also surprised and moved to tears when they sang a song for us. It was such a memorable experience for me. That moment felt like we were Zion—of one heart and of one mind, all worshipping the Lord, all united by music. Nothing can replace the sacredness and joy that I felt that night.
Three months later, we performed our Masskara dance again, this time with Elder and Sister Stevenson, the Area Presidency and their wives, and the entire country as the show and the devotional were broadcast live! We experienced the same high, this time brought about by the inspiring words of Elder and Sister Stevenson. They counseled us to P.R.O. every day: Pray over and over, Read time after time, and Obey again and again.
My Masskara co-dancers and I have been trying to apply the things we learned during our rehearsal period and our recent performances, and today I am happy to note that among the Masskara dancers, three are already serving their missions, and two have received their call.
Those who are serving include Sister Alcantara, a service missionary serving in the Quezon City North Mission, and Sister Russel Bañaga and Sister Krizzia Arpellida, both serving in the Philippines, Urdaneta Mission (they entered the MTC on July 19, 2024). Meanwhile, Brother James Ejercito’s mission in Seoul, South Korea started on September 27, 2024, and Sister Maren Rivera will serve in the Philippines Baguio Mission on November 1, 2024.
Sister Alcantara and Sister Bañaga were part of the previous generation of Masskara dancers who volunteered to train and teach the current batch of Masskara dancers. They showed patience and charity as they developed close relationships with the youth and taught those who had difficulty with the steps. Their example not just as dancers but as servants of the Lord is such a blessing to all of us.
Sister Arpellida, Brother James, and Sister Maren were all part of the current generation of Masskara dancers. The three of them developed a close friendship during the practices, and shared their progress along the covenant path, encouraging and inspiring each other. They showed resilience and perseverance despite having sore bodies as they continued to practice every Saturday from 8:00 am to 5:00 pm.
I can’t remember how many generations of Masskara dancers there have been since it started 14 years ago when they performed it during the Church Jubilee celebration at the Araneta Coliseum. As a primary child back then, I was amazed by the colorful and energetic number. I was also inspired by the many dancers and trainers who have served missions through the years. The legacy continues, and I hope more of the dancers from my generation will go and serve.
These missionaries and soon-to-be missionaries inspire all of us fellow dancers. They sacrificed their time and talents to the Lord to serve him through performing for the Tabernacle Choir and Elder and Sister Stevenson, now they are sacrificing their time and talents to invite others to come unto Christ and help them receive the gospel of Jesus Christ.

One day a friend and I noticed a young mother standing by her truck looking very frustrated and unhappy. She had several children watching and waiting. We were prompted to stop and offer help. She explained that she had run out of gas while on her way to pick up a daughter from a dancing lesson. We said we’d go get some gas for her. She seemed grateful for the help but reluctant to be “on the receiving end.” When we returned with the gasoline, the woman was thankful but still a little uncomfortable.
Then an idea came to me. I said to her, “You’d do the same for us!” That stopped her. She thought about it, then broke into a smile. “You’re right! I would!”
I no longer remember where I was going that day, but I do remember the sweet experience of helping. I’m convinced that most of us would like to stop and help, but we’re unsure or busy or frightened. When you stop, it’s too late to try to find some instruction book or to attend a seminar on how to respond. Besides, there is no way that a manual or handbook can tell you how to respond in those moments when one single individual needs you. You get ready ahead of time and then react immediately when preparation meets opportunity.

Of his experience as a husband and father, Brother Nelson says that the greatest satisfaction any of us can have is to know that we’re doing what the Lord wants us to do. In that connection, he learned an interesting lesson when, on a rafting trip in the Grand Canyon, he and his daughter Gloria were thrown from the raft as it plunged over a large rapid.
“It was a terrifying experience,” he reflects, “but it taught me to ‘cling to the iron rod.’ As we went over that rapid, I tried to cling to my daughter, fearful for her survival. But as we took more difficult rapids later, I learned to hang on to the ropes tightly and have my daughter hang on to me. The same principle applies in gospel living. If a man will cling to the word of God and be obedient so that his family can rely on him, the whole family will be safe.”

For more than twenty years, Sister Cécile Pelous, a member of the Cergy-Pontoise Branch, Paris France Stake, has worked for the finest fashion houses in Paris—Dior, Cardin, and Ricci. She designs and makes dresses for the wealthiest women in the world.
But since 1986, this graceful, dynamic women has used her glamorous career as a means to do quite a different work. She spends three months every year serving the destitute of India. Working in the impoverished suburbs of Calcutta and in the orphanages of Bengal, she dedicates all of her savings, along with donations from French friends, to the relief of poor children—with the assistance of local people of goodwill.
Cécile discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1974 when she was visiting the United States on a tour. Her group happened to stop at Temple Square and attend a performance by the Tabernacle Choir. “It was an intense emotional experience,” she says. Later, she told her fellow travelers that listening to the Choir was the part of the tour that she liked best.
Months later, missionaries knocked on her door back in France. Cécile was not interested until one of them said he was from Salt Lake City. Remembering her experience there, Cécile asked the missionary if he represented “the church with the choir.” When he said yes, she let them in and listened to their message. She was baptized a few months later—in 1975.
Eleven years later, in July 1986, Cécile took her first trip to India. “I went to Calcutta during vacation, with the idea of helping my neighbor,” she says. “I took with me my first-aid certificate, my goodwill, and my suitcases packed with medicines.” She had read about and had heard lectures describing conditions in India. “I knew there was plenty to do,” she says.
The work she found to do was mostly among the elderly, babies, and handicapped children of Calcutta. “I found opportunities to get busy and stretch myself. Dirty clothes and sheets had to be boiled and washed, meals prepared, patients fed in night shelters and almshouses, and medical care given,” she says. “The dying had to be washed, and warmth and affection had to be given them to help them leave this world. There were babies to change and feed who were so weak that you would wish you could force your own health into their bodies.” She worked first with Mother Theresa’s Sisters of Mercy and then with other groups.
“I am not a heroine,” Cécile says. “My experience in India is one of love and friendship.”
During that first trip to India, Cécile also discovered a home for one hundred elderly people, most of them bedridden. “There were only two Catholic missionaries to cater to the needs of all, and one of them had been sick for three days. When another volunteer and I arrived, we immediately rolled up our sleeves and went to work,” she says. “Sister Thérésina, one of the missionaries, kissed me and said, ‘The Lord has sent you!’ and I believed her.”

Some time ago I received a letter from Brother Rafael Pérez Cisneros of Galicia, Spain, telling me about his conversion. Part of his letter said the following:
“I had no concept of the purpose of life or what the family really is. When I finally allowed the missionaries to come into my home, I told them, ‘Give me your message, but I warn you that nothing is going to make me change religions.’ On this first occasion my children and my wife were listening attentively. I felt separated from the group. I felt afraid, and without thinking I went to my bedroom. I closed the door and began to pray from the depths of my soul like I had never prayed before. ‘Father, if it is true that these young men are Your disciples and have come to help us, please make it known to me.’ It was in that very moment that I began to cry like a small child. My tears were abundant, and I felt happiness like I had never before experienced. I was absorbed in a sphere full of joy and happiness that penetrated my soul. I understood that God was answering my prayer.
“All of my family was baptized, and we had the blessing of being sealed in the Swiss Temple, making me the happiest man in the world.”

This was especially true for Tevita Lei, a student at Saineha High School in Vava’u, Tonga.
When his family’s home was completely destroyed by fire, they lost everything. The next day, his fellow classmates got together and discussed what the family needed to start putting their world back together.
Mele’ana Mafi teaches computer science at the school, which is operated by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She remembers the day she looked around her classroom and noticed someone missing. Students confirmed that Tevita Lei was not there.
The teacher asked, “Why is he not here?”
A soft voice in the back said, “His house burned down last week.”
“Our simple discussions led everyone to think outside the box,” Mele’ana recalls.
“Students started volunteering to donate things for the most urgent needs, such as uniforms, school materials, a new school bag. The rest of the students volunteered to donate other things such as food, clothes and blankets.”
Mele’ana then went to the school principal, Motuliki Fakatava, to tell him about the situation and to see if he could provide transportation for the class members to deliver the items they had collected. He readily agreed.
The next day, all the members of Tevita’s computer class got on a school bus during home room time and went to see what was left of his home. In addition to Motuliki’s items, the students brought along all that they had managed to collect including some essentials such as rice, flour, sugar, beans and crackers.
They found Tevita and his father there by themselves amongst the charred remains of their home.
“I told his father the purpose of our visit and asked permission to do a short devotional service with them,” Mele’ana says.
“When we started to sing ‘We thank thee, O God, for a Prophet,’ we truly felt the spirit present and confirmed God’s love for His children. The sincerity of the prayer offered truly touched our hearts and put everyone in tears.”
She continued: “I was so broken hearted when we arrived to see Tevita and his father outside trying to clean up the ashes and burned remains of their home. I knew in my heart that this was the right thing for us to do.”
Some of the students shared their feelings about their visit to Tevita and his dad:
“Last night I was confused about what I should take to give the family. It came to my mind that it doesn’t matter if it is something small, big, cheap or expensive, but that you tried your best to help. It shows Tevita’s family that this is not the end and that the good Lord loves them. I saw the smiles on their faces, and it reminded me of my family.”
“I hope that what we gave them was a big help to their family. By helping others, we learn to love them as ourselves. I am grateful, and may God bless their family.”
“As we arrived, I just imagined myself in the position that he is in, with such difficulty and struggling to survive. It touched me most when his father said that he is grateful that Tevita has family out of his actual family, meaning us, his computer classmates.”
“Seeing my classmates’ willingness to help him really touched my heart. It showed the love of a family we had in our class. No matter how big our help was to Tevita Lei, that didn’t matter, but what mattered was that our classmates were willing to give a helping hand to our dearest brother. We will never leave anyone behind.”
“I know that Tevita’s dad was so excited and grateful for what we have been able to do. He said that now he can feel that ‘there is a family for his son that still cares about him.’ Everyone in this life is my family.”
“The moment I saw this brother, my heart and soul filled with the spirit of love. I appreciated my teacher for the great spirit that inspired us as a computer class to visit our beloved classmate Ti Lei. I felt the love that Jesus had for His children.”
Mele’ana summarized her thoughts about this experience: “I am grateful for the opportunity to reach out with our class to Tevita. What has happened this morning was a great start of our day. The acts of kindness, working together, love, empathy, and service, does reflect who they really are. They are sons and daughters of Heavenly Father.”
“As I came back to my classroom and reflected on my students and the goodness and mercy of God for His children, the scripture in Alma 26:37 (The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ) came to mind:
“Now my brethren, we see that God is mindful of every people, whatsoever land they may be in; yea, he numbereth his people, and his bowels of mercy are over all the earth. Now this is my joy, and my great thanksgiving; yea, and I will give thanks unto my God forever.”

It’s Tuesday night in Nashua. Sixty teachers and their spouses begin arriving at the appreciation night. They’re talking with their students, and the youth are relaxing.
I stop 14-year-old Cyndie Munk and ask her how it’s going. Three or four of her teachers are already here. “The teachers are just so impressed that we want to honor them,” she says, grinning. She sees her vice principal walk in and waves in his direction. “He never gets to do anything,” she tells me. “I gave him his invitation and told him what it was for and he absolutely beamed. Every time I saw him around school he just started smiling, asking if he was still supposed to come.”
The teachers are filing out and Cyndie sums up the Nashua evening for me. “My teachers said they’ve never had anyone do anything like this for them,” she says. “But I think they work hard. They give up a lot of their own time for us. I think they deserved this.”

Two days after Ryan’s accident, my brother Clay became a marathon runner. He started tugging on his gym shoes without a word to anyone and disappeared for hours. Each time he returned, his T-shirt was soaked through, and his hair was in wet spikes.
I think he ran to try to outrun the pain.
I stayed home and cried, reliving the accident as though it had been caught in a series of snapshots, frame by frame. First I saw Dad’s white face on the phone. Then we were driving to the hospital silently, and I could only stare at the armrest on the car door. I was afraid to look outside at the dark road, afraid I might see Ryan’s mangled bike still lying there.
At the hospital, I memorized every brand of candy bar and potato chip in the vending machine. They said when they found Ryan, he was lying in the road by a torn sack, with loaves of bread and grapes scattered around him.
The news that hurt so much was that they also found an Almond Joy (Mom’s favorite), a bag of peanut M&M’s (Clay’s favorite), a packet of sunflower seeds (Dad’s favorite), and a Snickers bar (my favorite). We knew he had spent his own money on the treats because he had a couple of pennies in one pocket and a folded receipt and six dollars and some change in the other pocket.
Ryan was in surgery when we arrived, and I remember staring at the TV screen in the waiting area, watching a pretty girl on a soap opera pout and plan to get her boyfriend back. She acted like it was the most important thing in the world. Eons later, we were allowed into intensive care. Ryan was difficult to recognize under the bandages. The doctor rattled off his injuries like a grocery list: a broken patella, femur, clavicle, and spine, a ruptured spleen, and a lacerated liver.
A broken this, a low that, a positive test for something else. All the news was negative. I was impatient, wanting to say, “Just tell us what isn’t broken.”
Ryan wore a metal brace, a halo, around his head, which kept it perfectly still, though he never moved. The only thing that moved was the ventilator, filling the air with a hiss. The IV kept up a quiet, steady drip. The heart monitor blipped ceremoniously.
Ryan would have liked the sounds, the rhythm of the IV and the steady beeping of the heart monitor. He used to sit at the table with a fork and spoon, tapping out a rhythm. He found patterns of rhythm in everything—the only person I know who appreciated a flat tire because it went “ga-WHUMP, ga-WHUMP, ga-WHUMP.”
I remember when he got excited as we watched rain fall one day on a long trip to Yellowstone. “Katie,” he said, “hear that?” He noticed little things, like the way raindrops hitting the windshield looked like miniature cat paw prints. Even though he was 15, he still had playing cards clipped to his bike spokes.
We were all there when the monitor stopped, the drumbeat fading to one long beep without rhythm or motion; Mom with red eyes, clutching a shredded tissue, Dad clenching his teeth; and Clay sitting near the bed, his head in his hands.
So Clay ran. And ran. I never saw him cry, but I think he must have done it during his runs. He was running miles and miles every day. Mom and Dad were quiet. No teasing or laughing or even music was heard in our house. Mom cried and cried when the drum set she’d ordered for Christmas came. I signed for it, and the delivery man went back to his truck, bewildered and apologetic.
I started to cringe whenever the doorbell rang. Who would be the next to blunder into our grief? A life insurance man? A boy Ryan’s age selling candy bars to finance a band trip?
Clay was out running the day the two young men, not much older than me, knocked on our door. I was surprised to see them in serious-looking suits because I couldn’t see a car. Instead, I saw two bicycles leaning against the porch. They wore nametags: Elder Martin and Elder Weiss.
Mom was in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for dinner. I didn’t call to her, and I had the two guys sit on the front porch in lawn chairs. They said they had a message about families, but I think I listened to them because they reminded me of Ryan—kind of young and innocent-looking, like they were playing at being grown-up in their father’s suits and ties, still riding bicycles.
They looked young, but they sounded wise and they had the kind of light about them that Ryan had. I didn’t tell them about Ryan, but their words were gentle and kind. They talked about a plan God has for his children and how he wants us to return to him.
I was intrigued, wondering how they knew so much. And as I listened, the porch, the lawn chairs, and the bicycles melted away and I felt like I was dreaming a comforting dream. Ryan, alive again. All of us happy again.
Suddenly Clay stood at the foot of the steps, breath coming out noisily, sweat dripping from his forehead.
“What are you guys trying to sell?” he demanded.
They looked at him. “We’re not selling anything. We’re teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Clay sat down and unlaced his shoes, jerking at the laces.
“Get out of here. There is no God.”
The missionaries rose but stayed where they were. Clay stood up too. He looked ready for a fight, but they calmly spoke to him. One of them said, “I know God lives and he loves us. He wants us to be happy.”
Clay became more angry. “That’s a bunch of baloney.” He shoved viciously at the bicycles, and they fell over like dominoes.
“Why did he take my brother? He was just a kid. Just a sweet little kid!” He threw his shoes at the house as hard as he could, barely missing the missionaries.
One elder looked ready to cry, but not out of fear. He said, “I felt the same way when my sister died of leukemia. But death isn’t the tragedy. Sin is. The gospel has taught me that I will see my sister again someday. Her spirit still lives on.”
His voice faded and he almost whispered. “Sometimes I can feel her near me.”
Clay stared at him for a moment, then brushed past him into the house. The elders thanked me for listening to them and asked if they could come again. I wanted them to. I wanted to know more. I wanted the comforting feeling they brought.
They did come back, and they gave me a blue book. As fall deepened into winter and it grew more serious and cold, the only thing that was in motion in our family was Clay, still running every day. The rest of us went through our routines. School, work, housework. But that was all. Anything extra took too much energy. But I did read the blue book, the Book of Mormon.
I brought the elders inside, and sometimes Mom listened briefly at the kitchen door, dish towel in her hands. She’d been a cleaning fanatic before, but now she cleaned twice as much, vacuuming twice a day.
What the elders said made so much sense.
“To every thing there is a season” (Eccles. 3:1). They said there is a pattern, a rhythm in life, and “As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Clay saw me reading the Book of Mormon one day and said, “Those guys think they have all the answers, don’t they?” I told him I had been reading and praying, and that it was helping.
“I feel closer to my Heavenly Father, and he is helping me, one day at a time, one hour at a time,” I said. “And I feel closer to Ryan too. Sometimes he seems so near that I talk to him and tell him what I’m learning.” I was surprised to hear myself telling Clay such a private thing, but maybe I did it for a reason. Clay turned away and went to his room.
In March, Elder Martin told me and Mom, “I love springtime. It comforted me so much after Michelle died. I saw the plants die in the winter and be buried in snow. But in the spring, everything came alive again. I believed in the Resurrection. I believed in God’s purposes, and I finally trusted in his wisdom to take Michelle, even though we missed her so much. I knew Michelle was free from pain and that I would see her again.” He looked earnestly into our faces. “You will see Ryan again.”
Clay had come in from running and stood quietly as Elder Martin finished speaking. It had started snowing, but I could still see the daffodils, crocuses, and tulips Mom and I had planted the week before Ryan died, their yellows, blues, and reds brilliant against the pasty sky.
The elders smiled at Clay and shook his hand. Clay dropped his hat, and Elder Martin picked it up. He scooped a tiny bit of snow into his hands and it immediately melted.
“Look at snowflakes,” he said, looking at his wet palm. “No two alike, but they each have a pattern. You don’t see it unless you have a microscope. You have to look closely. If God gave something so small a pattern, he certainly gave us, his children, one. We can’t see it always, so we have to trust him.”
Clay said quietly, “I ran the marathon today. Twenty-six-point-two miles. It was a killer.”
“You should have told us!” Mom said. “We would have come to cheer you on.”
He looked at me. “I thought about what you said about praying. The whole time I was praying that God could help me understand why Ryan died and help me know that he wasn’t gone for good. Near the end of the race, I was the only one in front. I don’t even remember passing the other runners. It was like Ryan was running next to me, saying, ‘Go for it. You’re gonna win. Listen to your feet; keep up the rhythm; keep up the pace.’ And I won. I think I understand now. Ryan was like a sprinter. His race was quick, over in a few seconds. The rest of us are going for distance, though we don’t know when our own race will end.” His eyes filled, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.
His voice dropped. “Ryan’s alive. His spirit is still alive.”
Elder Martin turned to Clay. “You’re right. You will see him again and be with him.” His eyes shone.
Elder Weiss said, “Hey, Clay, you’ve inspired us to start running every morning. What if we come by here on our way and pick you up? We can do some running together, and you can give us some pointers.”
Clay nodded. His breathing had slowed. He looked more healthy and alive than he’d looked for a long time. “Yeah, sure. That’d be okay.”
I watched the elders pedal away, smiling and talking like brothers, their long coats flapping behind them, ears already red with cold. Even though they wore dark suits, they seemed as bright as our flowers against the dull sky. Part of the pattern was becoming clear to me, and I knew those two young men would be connected to our family forever.
The snow changed to sleet, hitting the window with a pinging sound Ryan would have liked.

LeGrand Nonales Terceño, as he was playing “I Love to See The Temple” on the piano under the beautiful Acacia trees outside the temple, was amazed when one by one little children drew nearer to him and sang the words of the song. Some of them grabbed their parents’ hands and asked them to sing along.
Some visitors requested him to play their favorite hymns while waiting to enter the temple. One guest said, “You’re inviting the Spirit with your music.”
LeGrand shared, “That lifted me up. I felt that moment Heavenly Father was smiling over us.”

Julie’s first day at Flower Elementary School just happened to be the day before Valentine Day. At breakfast that morning she felt sick.
“You’re probably just nervous,” her mom said. “Going to a new school can be scary.”
Julie did feel scared as she walked into the school yard. Everywhere she looked, she saw children she didn’t know. She wondered if she’d ever make friends.
Julie and her mom found her classroom and met her new teacher. Then Mom went home.
The teacher asked each of Julie’s new classmates to give his name and tell about something that he liked. Julie tried to remember everyone, but it was too hard.
After all the children had introduced themselves, the teacher talked about the valentine party for the next day. “You’re here just in time for the fun,” she said to Julie, handing her a written list of everyone’s name.
After school Julie told her mom about her day. “I’ll feel bad at the party because I don’t really know anyone yet.”
“Why not use the party to make new friends?” Mom suggested. “Give a special valentine to everyone in your class.”
Yes, Julie thought, I can do that. I’ll try to make extra-special valentines.
The first name on the list that her teacher had given her was Kim Anderson. Julie remembered Kim because she seemed nice. “I like cats and picnics,” Kim had said. So I’ll draw a picture of a cat having a picnic for Kim’s valentine, Julie decided.
She read the other names on the list and remembered what six of the children had said that they liked. For those that she couldn’t remember, she decided to draw hearts and cute stuffed animals.
When Julie explained her plan, Mom smiled and took her to the crafts store for supplies. Julie was picking out poster board when her stomach began to itch. She scratched it with her left hand and grabbed a sheet of pink poster board with her right one.
Back in the car Julie scratched her stomach again. Mom peeked under Julie’s sweater. “Oh, honey,” she said, “you’re coming down with the chicken pox. No wonder you didn’t feel well this morning.”
They drove right to Dr. Elder’s. “You just have a mild case of chicken pox,” he said. “Take it easy and don’t scratch. And no school for about a week.”
“No school!” Julie wailed when she got home. “Can’t I at least go to the party? I was going to make lots of friends with my special valentines.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but there will be other ways to make new friends when you can go back to school—you’ll see.”
The next morning Julie watched through the living room window as other children walked to school. She saw Kim and another girl from her class and plenty of children whom she didn’t know. They all chattered happily as they walked, making Julie feel lonelier than ever.
Even though Mom smeared lotion on Julie’s itchy blisters and read stories to her and played games with her, when two o’clock came, she felt especially sad because that was the time that the valentine party was supposed to start.
“I would have taken your valentines to school if I’d realized how much it meant to you,” Mom said.
“I didn’t make them, anyway,” Julie reminded her mom. “I was too tired to cut out that many hearts.”
Mom nodded. “That’s too much cutting for a girl with chicken pox.”
Then Julie had an idea. She could make one valentine by the time the children walked home from school. Working fast, she drew a giant heart on the poster board and cut it out and used a red crayon to write “Let’s be friends” on it. Then she drew a cat having a picnic, a truck, a horse, a baseball bat, a dog, some flowers, and some hearts. At the bottom she added, “I’m sick with chicken pox, but I’d still like to be your valentine. Julie.”
Mom helped her tape the giant heart to the living room window.
Soon dozens of children were walking past her house. They all looked at her valentine, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Then Kim came down the street. As soon as she saw the window, she pointed at it and called to other kids. Julie recognized them—they were her new classmates! She waved to them, but they had gathered together and were talking and didn’t wave back. Still talking, they sat on Julie’s lawn and acted very busy.
At last they stood, walked up to Julie’s front door, dropped envelopes into the mail slot and grinned and waved to her as they went on down the street.
Julie waved back enthusiastically, a big smile on her own face. Then she sat on the sofa and opened the envelopes. What fun it was. She had valentines from five children in her class—and even some from children in other classes! Her favorite one had a picture of a cat saying:
“To my chicken-pox valentine—
Get well so that we can have a picnic together.
Your friend,Kim.”

Brigham Young began to develop rapidly toward his own foreordained role as a prophet the night in October 1832 when he first met Joseph and began to “subject [himself] to his counsel.” He and Heber C. Kimball were invited to stay for supper and for a regular, informal gathering of the Church leaders in Kirtland. There they “conversed together upon the things of the kingdom.” Brigham was asked to give the closing prayer, during which he was moved to speak in tongues. This was a spiritual gift the Prophet had not witnessed before; in fact, he had strongly warned against certain over-enthusiastic and unedifying cases of such expression at frontier camp meetings he had heard about, and the brethren thought he would condemn this manifestation. But when they asked him about it after Brigham left, he said, “No, it is of God, and the time will come when Brigham Young will preside over this Church.”8

An experience related by Bruce Gardner, a blind attorney in Phoenix, Arizona, illustrates both of these beliefs. When Bruce moved into his ward, he met a teenage boy, blind from birth, who was intelligent and friendly. But ward members treated him as though he were helpless: they led him everywhere. “When the people in the ward saw how independent I was, they thought I was unusual,” says Bruce.
“When I was called to be this boy’s home teacher, I immediately bought him a cane. One Saturday morning, we walked the short distance to the chapel together, something he had never done before, and then we walked all over the building getting him acquainted with the hallways and the rooms. After two short sessions he could find his way anywhere in the building independently. The only problem was that some people found it difficult to change their attitude toward him. He is now serving a full-time mission and plans to earn a college degree when he returns.”

Joseph William Billy Johnson is one of those people. He has been a member of the Church from its beginnings in Ghana.
In 1964 an associate gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon and some Church tracts that had been sent from Europe. When he read a tract containing the testimony of Joseph Smith, he recalls, “I was inspired,” and when he read the Book of Mormon, “I knew it was true.” He began to preach the gospel truths he had learned. He wrote to Church headquarters, and President David O. McKay encouraged him to continue studying the scriptures and to be patient and faithful until missionaries could be sent to Africa.
Billy Johnson persevered for 14 years despite persecution. He built congregations to whom he taught the gospel doctrine he found in Church books. As nearly as he knew how, he tried to direct his congregations according to Church practices, yet he understood that he did not have authority to perform its ordinances.
Often he felt directed by the Spirit; he was sustained at times by visions and dreams. His son was named after Brigham Young because of a dream in which that former President of the Church offered encouragement. Brother Johnson learned about salvation for the dead after deceased relatives appeared to him in dreams and asked him to be sure they would have the opportunity to receive baptism by proxy.
“I drew inspiration from the pioneers,” he says. Reading of their struggles to build a haven in the western United States where they could worship in peace, he longed for the day when it might be possible to enjoy this same blessing in Ghana.
When Latter-day Saint missionaries arrived in 1978, after the revelation extending the priesthood to all worthy male members, hundreds of Ghanaians he had prepared were ready to be taught and baptized.
Despite the hardships he endured, Brother Johnson, now patriarch of the Cape Coast Ghana Stake, rejoices at the opportunity he had during all those years to help prepare others for the gospel. “Whenever I see in conferences the number of people who have been baptized into the Church, I start weeping for joy at the great work the Lord has done.”

Twelve-year-old Tim, ten-year-old Jake, and eight-year-old Jill closed their books for the day.
“Awesome history lesson, Mom,” Jake said.
“Totally!” Jill said. Mom made history so fun. It was Jill’s favorite subject.
“Thanks, kids,” Mom said as she gathered up her teaching supplies. “You’re all doing great. Your teachers next year are going to be so impressed with you, I just know it.”
Jill’s stomach did a little somersault. With the new baby coming, Mom had decided she would be too busy to teach homeschool next year.
“I’ll miss having you as my teacher,” Jill said.
Mom put a hand on Jill’s shoulder. “I’ll miss being your teacher too, sweetheart. But I’m still your mom.” She grinned. “And a mom is always a teacher!”
As Jill got ready for bed that night, she thought about what Mom had said. A mom is always a teacher.
Jill had never really thought much about it before. Mom had worked so hard. Right then and there Jill decided to somehow give Mom a gigantic “Thank you!” for being her teacher. It would have to be something special. But how should she do it? She prayed for help.
Several days later Jill still hadn’t thought of the perfect way to show thanks for Mom. She thanked her out loud all the time. But she wanted to do something more.
“You kids have done so well,” Mom said. “You’re definitely ready to graduate from homeschool.”
Jill’s hand froze in place, her pencil hovering above her paper. A fabulous idea popped into her head. Graduate! They could throw Mom a surprise graduation party! Mom would love it. It was the perfect way to say thank you.
Jill told Tim and Jake her plan. They soon began working to throw a great surprise party.
Jill had a hard time focusing on math the next day. She kept picturing Mom’s face when they surprised her.
Finally it was time to put their books away. When Mom turned around to wipe the chalkboard, Jill gave a thumbs-up to Tim and Jake to show that it was time. As quietly as possible they pulled out the secret party supplies they had hidden under their desks.
“Surprise!” they all yelled as Mom turned around. Jill ran over and gave Mom a rolled-up paper that she’d tied carefully with a ribbon. She’d worked hard on that homemade diploma.
“What’s all this?” Mom asked with a laugh. Tim put a graduation hat made of black construction paper on her head.
“It’s a graduation party!” said Jake. “From all of us.”
Jill gave Mom a big hug. “We wanted to thank you for being such a great teacher.”
“Happy graduation!” Jill and her brothers all shouted. Tim pulled out a party noisemaker and blew it loudly. “Come into the kitchen!” he said. “It’s time to get this party started.”
Mom laughed again and adjusted the graduation hat on her head. Then she followed Tim and Jake into the kitchen for the treats they’d planned.
Jill felt good inside. They had made Mom happy.
Next school year was going to be great, Jill decided. And if she ever had homework questions, she knew just who to ask for help. With a huge smile, Jill ran into the kitchen to join the party.

A label frequently seen and grudgingly borne is one which reads “Handicapped.”
Years ago, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) shared with President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Bruce R. McConkie, and me an experience he had in the appointment of a patriarch for the Shreveport Louisiana Stake of the Church. President Kimball described how he interviewed, how he searched, and how he prayed, that he might learn the Lord’s will concerning the selection. For some reason, none of the suggested candidates was the man for this assignment at this particular time.
The day wore on. The evening meetings began. Suddenly President Kimball turned to the stake president and asked him to identify a particular man seated perhaps two-thirds of the way back from the front of the chapel. The stake president replied that the individual was James Womack, whereupon President Kimball said, “He is the man the Lord has selected to be your stake patriarch. Please have him meet with me in the high council room following the meeting.”
Stake president Charles Cagle was startled, for James Womack did not wear the label of a typical man. He had sustained terrible injuries while in combat during World War II. He lost both hands and one arm, as well as most of his eyesight and part of his hearing. Nobody had wanted to let him in law school when he returned, yet he finished third in his class at Louisiana State University. James Womack simply refused to wear the label “Handicapped.”
That evening as President Kimball met with Brother Womack and informed him that the Lord had designated him to be the patriarch, there was a protracted silence in the room. Then Brother Womack said, “Brother Kimball, it is my understanding that a patriarch is to place his hands on the head of the person he blesses. As you can see, I have no hands to place on the head of anyone.”
Brother Kimball, in his kind and patient manner, invited Brother Womack to make his way to the back of the chair on which Brother Kimball was seated. He then said, “Now, Brother Womack, lean forward and see if the stumps of your arms will reach the top of my head.” To Brother Womack’s joy, they touched Brother Kimball, and the exclamation came forth, “I can reach you! I can reach you!”
“Of course you can reach me,” responded Brother Kimball. “And if you can reach me, you can reach any whom you bless. I will be the shortest person you will ever have seated before you.”
President Kimball reported to us that when the name of James Womack was presented to the stake conference, “the hands of the members shot heavenward in an enthusiastic vote of approval.”
The word of the Lord to the prophet Samuel at the time David was designated to be a future king of Israel provided a fitting label for the occasion. It certainly was the thought of each faithful member: “Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”11

When asked if his friends invite him to parties, David just laughs and says, “They know not to invite me. They know I’m not going to come.” He wouldn’t even consider going and just not drinking. “I wouldn’t want to be in a situation where I could be tempted,” he says. “I’d just rather not be there at all.”
During David’s last couple of years at school, his classmates went to a lot of parties and pubs, and it was hard for him to feel left out. Once, he was really tempted to attend a certain party. But then he had a lesson in his priests quorum about staying away from bad situations. He felt it was an answer to prayer and decided not to go to the party.