Gospel Story Finder

Fun. The Bakersfield California Stake wanted to come up with an activity so fun that non-LDS and less-active youth wouldn’t be able to stay away. And that’s just what happened when they threw a stake youth “Almost Anything Goes Olympics.”
Each ward made up a team and chose a country to represent. They all met at a park by a local lake and let the fun, and water balloons, fly. Along with traditional activities like tug-of-war and egg tosses, they had events like a mattress race, where six of the strongest ward members transported the smallest perched on a mattress, and the Holey Trash Can Fill, where some team members rushed to fill a punctured trash can with lake water, while their teammates tried to plug the holes with fingers, toes, knees, and even heads.
The best-loved event was the canoe race. A barbecue and dance finished off the day.
Each ward was a winner in one category or another and received a plaque. But the youth felt that the real winners were the 15 less-active and 10 non-LDS young people who shared in the fun. Many have returned to other Church activities.

A few years ago my daughter and I, along with two other friends, were backpacking in the Teton Range. Looking for an adventure, we asked the ranger if there was a path that not very many people knew about. He told us about a trail-less hike that would take us through meadows, streams, boulder fields, then to a pristine lake, and eventually to our destination—The Wall. We were in! He gave us instructions on the basic directions and said, “Stay high on the mountain. Don’t go down in the willows because that is where the bears are; watch for the cairns that will show you the way.” Cairns are rocks stacked on top of each other to form an eco-friendly trail marker.
We began early the next morning. For a time we were down in the willows, which made me very nervous. Then we saw our first cairn up on the side of the hill, and we went to it. We hiked from cairn to cairn. At times it seemed we were lost because we would go so long without seeing another cairn, but then to our relief we would see one again and all was well. We reached a huge field of boulders and had to hoist each other and our packs to the top of each boulder. This was challenging, but by evening we reached the beautiful pristine lake. This is where we pitched our tents. We had exquisite views in every direction. The strenuous hike was worth it!
Early the next morning, however, I awoke to the sound of howling wind. A fog had descended on the lake, making it almost impossible to see in any direction. We packed our tents and sleeping bags and started out navigating around the lake, beginning our ascent to our destination, The Wall. I was never so happy as to arrive at The Wall—in fact, we all were! We went up to the huge granite wall and kissed it! We had arrived.

But they would tell more than this story when they talked of Catherine. Born 7 January 1855, sixteen months after her parents, who were pioneers, arrived in Salt Lake, Catherine was seven years old when her family was called to help settle Saint George in southern Utah. Catherine remembers that first Christmas in southern Utah. In her stocking, she found a few pieces of molasses candy, some raisins, and a slice from an apple that her mother had brought all the way from Salt Lake City. Her father carved thirteen dolls, and an artistic neighbor painted hair and faces on them. That Christmas, Catherine and twelve other little girls had dolls.

For instance, each time you and your companion prepare to go visiting teaching, you just need to remember what success will be. It will be more than getting in the door. It will be more than giving a message. It will be more than asking how you can help. Success will come perhaps only after many visits. And you may not in this world see the evidence that you have succeeded. But you can feel by the Spirit if you are on the way.

I talked with a Relief Society member about a visit she had made. It was to a woman who would soon lose her husband suddenly and tragically. In recent years the woman had only intermittent contact with Relief Society.

The visitor prepared by stopping at a shop to buy flowers. It was a season when the tulips were stacked for sale in many colors. She chose one color, her favorite, but then felt impressed to try another. She didn’t know why she selected yellow, but she did.

When she presented the yellow tulips at the door, the woman smiled and said, “Come. See my backyard garden.” It was filled with yellow tulips in full bloom. The woman said, “I was just wondering if I should cut some for the house. But now I can leave them and enjoy them a little longer in my garden because you brought me these.” They chatted pleasantly as if they were old friends. From that impression to bring some flowers and to choose yellow tulips, that visiting teacher had evidence that she was on the Lord’s errand. When she told me, I could hear the joy in her voice.

When she spoke with me, she didn’t know what the widow felt after the visit. But if the widow felt that God loved her and that He had sent an angel to her, the visiting teacher had helped her move down the road to success in the Lord’s eyes. That visitor may verify success from her faithful effort only in the world to come.

That is true for two visiting teachers who again and again brought love to another widow living nearby in a nursing home for nearly nine years. After hard trials, she passed away just weeks ago. From what I learned from a son of the widow, I am confident that those teachers succeeded. They will have the happy experience the Prophet Joseph Smith’s mother described to the sisters in a meeting of the society which she attended. She said, “We must cherish [and] watch over one another, comfort one another and gain instruction that we may all sit down in heaven together.”6

Now, thirdly, I want to discuss a gift to self. What kind of a gift could you give to yourself this Christmas season? I am reminded of the story, and maybe some of you have heard it, about a young boy named Johnny. He went to the corner drugstore one day and asked Mr. Brown if he could borrow the phone. Mr. Brown knew him well, and said, “Sure, Johnny.” Johnny dialed the number, and Mr. Brown couldn’t help but hear the conversation which went like this:
“Hello, Mr. Green? I understand you are looking for a boy to come by your place after school and do some yardwork and help on some odd chores.”
“Oh, you already have a boy, and you’re doing fine. I see. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Green.” He hung up the phone and started out of the drugstore. The owner, Mr. Brown, felt a little bit down because of the boy’s conversation, and he said, “Johnny, I just want you to know I’m sorry you didn’t get that job.” Johnny turned around with a smile on his face, and said, “Mr. Brown, I got that job. I was just checking up on myself.”

Seminary also serves as a great preparation for the missionary work you will do—as a member missionary today and also if you serve as a full-time missionary in the future. Franco Huamán Curinuqui of Peru knows that his scripture study in seminary has been helping him prepare for his mission.

He says this preparation is worth getting up for seminary at 4:00 a.m., riding canoes when months of flooding hit the area, and then wading through mud to get to class. He says, “I want to finish seminary and start institute classes in order to be prepared for a mission. I am going to keep growing in the Church.” Seminary is important to him because he learns about the scriptures and memorizes important verses, which will help him be a better missionary.

Stan Chidester sits in the front room looking at walls covered with his younger brother’s paintings. There are impressionistic watercolors, dramatic abstracts, and intricately executed montages. He looks at the walls, then at his brother sitting calmly in his wheelchair, and says, “Well, he’s 23 and has been into art most of his life. The past few years he’s started to get good. Maybe by the time he’s 24 …” He purposely lets the rest of the sentence trail away.
Brad, the artist, listens to his brother’s humorous critique with a half-smile on his face. Obviously, they know each other very well.
Stan goes on, “I’m his worst critic.” But later the older brother reveals that he has known for a long time how talented his brother truly is. “I have one of the paintings Brad did a long time ago. I was looking at it the other day. I think it’s still my favorite.”
Brad Chidester of Sandy, Utah, has been confined to a wheelchair most of his life with muscular dystrophy. As a child he was the Utah state muscular dystrophy poster child. His artistic abilities were apparent from an early age. Like many little boys, he loved trucks. He was always doodling and vehicles with wheels were his favorite subjects.
His love of drawing has given him a chance to cheer others and has helped him gain some interesting friends as well. When Brad was 11, he was watching a car race on television. He was stunned to see a car crash and burn in the pits. One of the men severely injured was Derrick Walker, the manager of a racing team.
“I drew a race car and sent it to him in the hospital as a get-well card. After that, he sent me a thank-you letter. We’ve been friends ever since,” says Brad. That simple correspondence has blossomed into a special relationship. Since then, Walker and Roger Penske, another racing friend, have flown Brad and a guest to major races each year. Brad’s thoughtfulness as a young boy proved that caring and concern are not limited to the physically able.
In high school, one of Brad’s art teachers introduced him to watercolors. That turned out to be Brad’s medium. “I loved it and just stayed with it,” said Brad. “Then one of the secretaries bought one of my landscapes. That got me really excited. I saw I could do something that could earn a little money.”
Brad went on to be named the Sterling Scholar for Utah (a program for outstanding scholastic achievement) in visual arts. He studied graphic arts and began to have his work accepted for showing in galleries. Although he is still a struggling artist, the demand for his work is growing.
To keep track of ideas and things that interest him, Brad and his family take a camera wherever they go. He has someone take a picture of whatever catches his artistic eye. He has also expanded his style. For a long time, he drew realistically. Over the years, he has branched out. “I always thought anybody could do abstract art,” says Brad. “When you get into it, you realize how hard it is. Now it’s one of my favorite things to do.”
Brad is cared for and supported by his three older brothers and his father. His mother died two years ago. Although he appreciates all his family does for him, when asked what one thing he would change about his life, Brad says, “I’d like to be more independent.” Not an unusual sentiment for someone Brad’s age no matter what their physical condition. Another step Brad is taking for himself is preparing to go to the temple.
Although Brad is a talented artist, he suffers his share of rejection. “I’ve had a lot of rejection letters from galleries,” says Brad. “But you can’t let that bother you. You have to keep going.” It’s obvious that Brad has discovered the secret to developing one’s God-given talents. He says, “If you’re really into something, pursue it to the fullest extent.” For a young man whose physical limitations would give him plenty of excuses not to try, he has taken his own advice. He is a true artist.
Brad remembers his high school days and the things people did for him that helped and the things that hurt. Here are a few of Brad’s suggestions if you meet someone with a handicap.
“Some kids seemed afraid they would hurt my feelings, so they would just avoid me. I liked it when someone tried to get to know me.”
“Some people feel sorry for me and try too hard to be nice. I prefer it when they treat me like a regular person. Don’t be afraid; yet don’t go overboard.”
“It bothers me when kids are asking me questions and their parents shush them. Little kids are great.”
“The best way is when people talk with me. That’s the best way to learn how to act around someone with a handicap. Ask them.”

The crowd seemed to calm down suddenly and every person stopped talking as if on cue. They focused their attention on the floor because they recognized that same girl—the one they had noticed earlier in the balance beam competition. This time she was swinging in ever higher circles around the uneven parallel bars, but she could have been just turning somersaults and they still would have noticed.
The girl on the floor was Diane Ellingson, a typical-looking gymnast with a tiny frame and a blonde ponytail. But her looks were the only thing typical about her, and the crowd could always sense that.
Maybe they noticed her because of the saucy way she held her pirouettes during her floor routine. It could have been the spectacular twists and turns she executed when she flipped from the uneven parallel bars. It might have been her effortless leaps over the vault, but above all that, it was probably her genuine love for the crowd. They could feel it when she flashed them that one-of-a-kind smile at the end of a perfect routine.
Of course, even when her performance wasn’t quite so perfect there was still something about that infectious smile. Even when she landed in a belly flop on national television after a routine, she smiled and waved to the crowd until they applauded. In a meet on her 18th birthday she told the judges it was her birthday so they would ask the crowd to sing “Happy Birthday” to her. “I wasn’t embarrassed,” says Diane. “I would’ve let them sing it twice just for the attention.”
Her love of the audience was a carryover from childhood. Once when she was nine or ten she didn’t come home from school when she was supposed to, so her father went looking for her. He found her in the center of a circle of children, entertaining them with her tumbling tricks, not for the glory, just for fun.
Diane’s sister Marie laughs at the memory of Diane as a child performer. “If you ever see our family movies, she’s always out in front. She was just always a show-off. Dad would be taking a picture of someone else and Diane would get in the picture somehow.”
That desire to perform fit perfectly into gymnastics, another of Diane’s lifelong loves. It was tough to convince her parents that gymnastics was a good thing for her, and even then she had to do something more.
“Our family had seven kids and couldn’t afford to pay for Diane to have lessons. She went down to the gym herself and told the coach that she’d do anything for them. So after workouts she’d clean the gym—vacuuming mats, cleaning bathrooms, whatever, to pay for her lessons,” says Marie.
Diane’s love of the spotlight was quickly matched by her gymnastic ability, and the two made a championship combination. She started training when she was 14 1/2, a late start by competitive standards, but within a year she was competing against the best in the country. She was the Junior Olympic National Champion in high school, and in college she led the University of Utah’s women’s gymnastics team to their first national collegiate title.
After her eligibility for college competition was up, she decided to go on a national professional tour. It was a tour that involved Kurt Thomas and other well-known gymnasts, and Diane would get paid $5,000 just to go. She says she knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.
During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew into the air—just like all the other times. This time was different though. This time she rotated just a little too much. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost half a year and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.
That was on December 15, 1981. Diane spent that Christmas and the next five months in the hospital, trying to comprehend a life without gymnastics. After so many years of loving the sport, it was difficult for Diane to adjust.
“I hated being in the hospital, and I felt like I was in prison,” says Diane. For one month of the five she was in the hospital, she was in traction and couldn’t move at all except when the nurses came in and turned her a few inches every two hours. Diane had no idea she’d be in the hospital for so long. “In fact, when I was first injured I thought for sure that in a month I’d be back on the tour and back in shape. I thought, ‘If I have enough faith and believe in God and in myself, I’ll be okay.’ And I just knew it.”
Recovery wasn’t quite so easy though, and things seemed to get worse. “I was a horrible patient,” says Diane. “In the hospital I was really miserable because I was so stir-crazy. I was really impatient with people.” Finally Diane came to a turning point.
“Near the end of my traction one day I was in the depths of despair. I just felt like I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Diane says. She asked for a blessing. She knew the power to heal her was present, “but I only wanted that to happen if it was Heavenly Father’s will. I had this blessing and I felt the greatest sense of peace. It was like I knew that no matter what happened it would be okay. If I didn’t walk away from the hospital there would be a reason for it. I knew that I had always tried my best to live the gospel and do what I was supposed to do, so if anybody was worthy to have that blessing, I was. But from that point on I was a different person. I was totally comforted.”
Ironically, one of the biggest aids to her recovery was gymnastics. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten up again if I hadn’t had that training in gymnastics,” she says. “I had a lot of chronic injuries when I was a gymnast that I just had to deal with. It was always down, up, down, up in gymnastics and this was just one more down I had to get up from. Gymnastics to a big degree made me so I could be a champion again.”
Being a champion is what Diane is all about. Marie says, “Her attitude’s always been, ‘If you want it, go for it.’ She decided when she was young that she would never give up.” And since Diane wanted to teach before her accident, she couldn’t just give that up, no matter what the odds.
Diane made the decision to return to school to finish her degree on the day she finally realized she would never walk again. She was lying on her bed amid scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”
Now she teaches a class full of third graders who are just the right height to look her in the eye. “The kids will do anything for her,” says Marie. “They just love her.”
Her students aren’t her only fans. Diane also gives fireside talks to teenagers who listen, captivated, as she tells her story. And her message is one of hope and perseverance, without bitterness for what has happened.
Her personality hasn’t changed at all, although she doesn’t wear her hair in a ponytail anymore. Just listen to her speak and you’ll see the exuberant, happy girl who used to charm arenas full of people. Now her charm is just aimed at another audience. Her voice seems to smile at every person in the room and her ready laugh frequently interrupts her stories.
“I think telling my gymnastics stories and sharing my experiences kind of breaks the wheelchair barrier. The kids can see that I’m just a regular person and we have a lot in common, even though I look a lot different than they do,” Diane says.
Her main message is one for potential champions: don’t give up, no matter what happens. “When I was a young gymnast I met a girl, an athlete named Nancy Thies. Nancy was a member of the U.S. Olympic team and one of the finest gymnasts in the country. I have never forgotten some very important things that Nancy taught me. I remember the first thing she said was, ‘Don’t be afraid to lose. She said, ‘If you fall down and you stay down, you’re a quitter and a loser and you will never win. But if you get back up and you try one more time, it will be your turn to be the champion, so just don’t give up.’” Diane says she made a promise to herself that she would remember that advice and never give up, no matter how many times she fell.
Once she faced the hardest fall of her life, not giving up was difficult, especially because of her wheelchair. The whole time she was in gymnastics, whether she was swinging high above the uneven parallel bars or just doing handstands for fun, she was only afraid of being blind or paralyzed. “I was so paranoid of wheelchairs that I would never talk to anybody in a wheelchair or go near a wheelchair. In stores, if somebody in a wheelchair was down an aisle, I’d never go down that aisle, no way. I was paranoid that I’d end up in one if I got too close. It was almost like having thought about it so much kind of prepared me,” she says.
It was probably Diane’s indomitable spirit that prepared her more than anything else. It’s a spirit that comes through in both her funny stories and her powerfully quiet testimony about the importance of an eternal perspective and God’s love for each of his children. It’s a spirit that Diane has always had. “I’ve never met anyone, except my father, who has a stronger testimony than she does,” says Marie. “There’s no doubt in her mind that what she’s doing is right and that the Church is true. She has always been a great example.”
The lights dim when she finishes her message, and a slide show featuring Diane, the ham and gymnast, flashes on the screen in time to some upbeat music. When it’s over, young people swarm around her, enveloping her tiny frame and wheelchair with their excitement.
Diane says, “It makes me feel really good when people tell me they’re going to try harder after they’ve heard my talk. One girl came to me once and told me she’d heard me speak four different times. The first time, she decided not to commit suicide. The second time, she decided that she didn’t have to flunk out of school. The third time, she made a goal to make the honor roll, and the last time she was on her way to that goal.” Another champion in the making, thanks to Diane.
Diane just shrugs and laughs a little when someone tells her she’s wonderful. She even looks a little embarrassed, which is rare for this experienced performer. “People always think, ‘You’re so amazing, you’re so incredible,’ but I’m not. People will say, ‘If that happened to me I could never cope with it,’ and the thing I have to say is, ‘Either you cope or you die.’ You have to take whatever life gives you and deal with it, even if you might not want to. You know, if somebody dies in your family, you have to live with it. If you break your neck you have to live with it, but you just learn and that’s what’s so great about time and the healing process. You don’t have to be miraculous.”
You just have to be as willing as Diane was to get up again, so that someday it will be your turn to be the champion.
For Diane, the victory is especially sweet, because she has won back what she thought she’d lost.
She is a champion again.

President David O. McKay tells: “I remember as a deacon chopping wood for the widows on Saturday. We met as a group of nine boys, held a short meeting, took our axes, went to the widows, and chopped enough wood for each to last that week.”
And President McKay continues: “As a priest, I recall administering the sacrament and my failure the first time I offered the prayer. We did not have the prayer on a printed card before us then as is frequently the case now. We were supposed to memorize it. The sacrament table was just under the pulpit, and my father, the bishop, always stood right over the one who asked the blessing upon the bread and water. I thought I knew the prayer, but I had memorized it privately, and when I knelt and saw the congregation before me, I became flustered.” (Cherished Experiences, comp. Clare Middlemiss, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1976, p. 190.) This challenge did not cause him to become discouraged, my young friends. He made additional preparation and lifted himself to a level of excellence.

The area of Peru where my family lived was particularly troubled by violence. During the afternoon of 20 April, a band of terrorists came into town with guns and dynamite. They began rounding up people—including my mother, my brother, and me—threatening to kill us. Silently I prayed that, if I had to die, I would go to paradise.
The terrorists tied up all those who had stones, sticks, or any other weapon of self-defense in their possession and shot them with machine guns. Women wept for their husbands, brothers, and sons. My mother wept, too, for my brother was among the dead.
Exactly one month later, the terrorists returned at 1:00 A.M. looking specifically for my father. He was a leader in the town, and rumor had falsely accused him of organizing the town against the terrorists. This time they took my parents and several other people from their homes and murdered them. Had my brothers and sisters and I not been sleeping at our aunt’s house, we would most likely have also been killed. But we were able to flee into the hills.
Early that same morning, we were pounded by a hailstorm, but as soon as it was light, I began running to the town over the hill to get help. Suddenly I realized that some of the terrorists were also hiding in the hills and that they were coming after me. As I started down the hill, which was very slippery with hail, I pleaded with the Lord to help me. Miraculously, I was able to escape.
As soon as I was out of danger, I knelt to give thanks and to ask for protection. As I finished my prayer, I felt a wonderful peace, as if nothing bad had happened. My legs had been shaking violently. Now they felt renewed, and I had the strength to continue running. My fear completely disappeared. I had just lost my parents, but I felt a strong assurance that I had a Heavenly Father who loved me.
With help from the people in the town I fled to, I was able to get the rest of my family to safety.

One of the first components in building family faith is the courage to begin a family. Marco and Raffaella Ferrini of the Firenze Second Branch, Florence Italy District, dated each other before serving missions. Soon after returning home, they both felt impressed in the temple that they should marry soon. “In Italy it’s more common to get married in your 30s,” Marco says. Some friends and relatives asked them, “Why are you getting married so young?”
Raffaella also wanted a temple marriage. She says, “To marry in the temple is a good goal,” even though it may be harder to achieve in countries with fewer Church members. “Satan tries to convince us to make wrong decisions, but when we have a good goal clearly set in our minds, Heavenly Father will help us overcome everything so we can reach that goal.” She is grateful that it’s easier to meet Latter-day Saints now than in her parents’ generation. She’s also happy the Lord blessed her with the opportunity to marry “not just a Church member but a worthy priesthood holder.”
Raffaella and Marco showed their gratitude to the Lord by making sacrifices so they could marry when the Spirit guided them to. They planned a simple, inexpensive celebration, and Marco decided to delay finishing his university studies. “Everything is so expensive here that it’s hard to do more than one thing at once—study, work, and have a family,” he says. Financial concerns prompt most Italians to finish school and establish careers before marriage, “but our main desire was to start our family,” Marco says. He realized that only three things were vitally necessary to be able to do so: a job, a place to live, and the faith to move forward. At first “I didn’t get a very good job, but it was enough,” Marco says. “Anytime you have to make a hard decision, you just have to jump in. You go by faith and try your best,” trusting that needed blessings will come. Eventually he was blessed with a better-paying job in the tourist industry, thanks to the foreign languages he learned on his mission. He also has a testimony of paying tithing because his young family has never been in need.
Marco values Church leaders’ counsel to get an education, and he plans to earn his degree when his children are a little older. But for now, “I feel the Spirit telling me that it’s important for me to be with my family. And since my two children, Giulia and Lorenzo, have been born, I haven’t regretted a thing.”
“We don’t have much money,” Raffaella says, “but we are happy.” They are grateful to participate in the plan of happiness and teach its truths to the next generation—the third generation in their family to receive gospel blessings.

“Teacher! teacher! Please run now they are coming after you,” the student in a black hijab shouted at me. I couldn’t figure out why she said that. I was serving as a teacher in a village in the northern part of the country as a corper in the compulsory national youth service scheme.
Again, the warning sounded and this time, all the students in the class ran away leaving me behind. As I came out of the classroom, I saw large group of people gruesomely hacking some of my colleagues down. “What in the world is this?” I asked only to discover that I was asking the empty walls and I immediately took to my heels as the irate mobs saw me and started running towards my direction. As I ran and jumped trenches in the bush, I saw charred and dismembered bodies of old and young people.
The mobs chased me for what seemed like ages determined to do their worst. I fell into a hole and passed out. I must have stayed in the hole for many hours as it was now dark when I regained consciousness. Minutes later I heard voices of people searching for me saying, “We must find him and kill him! He is somewhere around here! He is an infidel, a Christian!” I was so afraid and started praying. As I prayed, I felt an overwhelming assuring power come over as if to say, “Be still, I am with you always.” I got up and climbed out of the hole and started saying these words as I walked aimlessly “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4) then the sound of a gunshot and flickers of torch lights interrupted me.
Thank God! The soldiers came to my rescue. Days later as we went to corper’s lodge to pick our belongings, all had been burnt except my Book of Mormon.

I sat at Jeremy Johnson’s kitchen table, staring at a bowl of yucky-looking green soup that Jeremy’s mom had placed in front of me. My friend Jeremy had invited me to sleep over that night, and my dad had driven me to the Johnson’s house just in time for dinner.
“I hope that you like split-pea soup, Tyler,” Jeremy’s mom said, smiling.
“I’ve never had it before,” I told her. “But I know that I like corn bread,” I added as she set a plate of it on the table.
Jeremy started to eat his soup. I just stared into my bowl. The color of the soup reminded me of grasshoppers. I didn’t think that I could eat it.
When I looked up, Jeremy was watching me. “Mom, Tyler doesn’t have to eat the soup if he doesn’t like it, does he?” Jeremy asked.
“Of course not,” said Jeremy’s mom. “I could make you a bologna sandwich, Tyler.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s OK. I’ll probably like the soup,” I assured them. I was remembering what my mom had said about missionaries having to eat foods that they aren’t used to when they are guests in people’s houses. Once during her mission in France. Mom ate fried snails—something she had never even thought of as food. The family who served the snails thought that they were giving her a special treat, and she didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Jeremy and his Mom aren’t members of the Church, I thought, and I want to be a good missionary. If Mom can eat snails, I can eat this split-pea soup.
I said a silent but fervent blessing on the food and then, between big spoonfuls of soup, took gulps of milk. When I was done, I asked Mrs. Johnson to pass me the corn bread.
“Oh, you finished your soup already,” she noticed, glancing at my empty bowl. “I’m glad that you liked it so much. Have some more.” She spooned more split-pea soup into my bowl and passed me the plate of corn bread.
“Thank you,” I said, looking at the second bowl of green soup in dismay. “Can I please have some more milk too?”
After dinner, Jeremy and I jumped on the trampoline in his backyard. He showed me how to do a back flop. I practiced a few times, and pretty soon I got the hang of it. We took turns inventing tricks to do on the trampoline.
When we went inside, Jeremy’s mom helped us make popcorn to eat while we watched a baseball game on television. After the game, Mrs. Johnson said, “Time for bed, guys.” She got two sleeping bags from the garage and helped us spread them out in the living room. Before turning out the light, she kissed Jeremy and patted my arm. “We’re having pancakes for breakfast, Tyler. Do you like pancakes as much as you like split-pea soup and corn bread?”
“I love pancakes,” I told her.
Before going to sleep, Jeremy and I talked for a while. He told me about the year his baseball team won first place in the league. I told him about the time I broke my arm sliding into first base. Then I told him that my family was going to play softball together next Monday night and asked if he wanted to play with us.
“Sure,” he said, yawning. “Well, good night, Tyler.”
“Good night,” I said.
Then I remembered—I hadn’t said my prayers yet. I waited until I thought Jeremy was asleep, then wriggled out of the sleeping bag and knelt on top of it. I was hoping that Jeremy wouldn’t wake up. He would think that I was crazy, kneeling there on the sleeping bag in the dark.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy suddenly asked.
I couldn’t think of any good way to answer him, so I just blurted out, “I’m going to say a prayer.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said. “How come?”
“Well, … I pray every night,” I started to explain. I wanted to be a missionary, but I wasn’t sure how to explain prayer to Jeremy. Then I had an idea. “Hey, do you want to pray with me? I’ll say the words.”
“I guess so,” Jeremy said. He climbed out of his sleeping bag and knelt on top of it like I was doing. I folded my arms, bowed my head, and closed my eyes.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” I began. “Thank you for all our blessings. Thank you for my friend Jeremy. …” I finished the prayer and closed it in the name of Jesus Christ. We both climbed back into our sleeping bags.
“I’m glad that you got to sleep over tonight, Tyler,” Jeremy said as he rolled over to go to sleep.
“Me too,” I told him.

Let me give you some background about the proclamation as a core message of what we believe.
In 1994, a year before the proclamation was presented, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles discussed how society and governments were pulling away from God’s laws for family, marriage, and gender. “But that was not the end of what we saw,” President Russell M. Nelson later explained. “We could see the efforts of various communities to do away with all standards and limitations on sexual activity. We saw the confusion of genders. We could see it all coming.”
The Twelve determined to prepare a document, an official proclamation, summarizing the Church’s position on family. During that year, these Apostles, seers called of God, prepared a declaration about the family. President Dallin H. Oaks recalled they prayerfully turned to the Lord for “what [they] should say and how [they] should say it.” They presented it to the First Presidency—Presidents Howard W. Hunter, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson—for their consideration.
Just months later, in March 1995, President Hunter passed away, and President Hinckley became the 15th President of the Church. The proclamation was now in his hands. When would be the right time to make this declaration to the Church? That time came six months later.
Days before the September 23 general Relief Society meeting that preceded general conference, President Hinckley and his counselors met in counsel with the Relief Society General Presidency. The sisters, like the Apostles, had been weighing concerns about women and families. They had focused the upcoming meeting on families.
President Hinckley was scheduled to address the women at the gathering. He had been pondering the direction of his remarks. As the discussion progressed, he referred by name to the newly created but not yet public “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” Was this women’s meeting the right setting to make the decisive declaration about family?
Relief Society General President Elaine Jack later explained: “We didn’t know what the proclamation on the family was at that time. … [W]e could tell by the title, but we felt anything on the family … would be a positive thing. … I felt very positive that we had members of the Quorum of the Twelve that were receiving revelation.”
The Relief Society meeting that Saturday was historic. President Hinckley introduced the family proclamation with these important words: “With so much of sophistry that is passed off as truth, with so much of deception concerning standards and values, with so much of allurement and enticement to take on the slow stain of the world, we have felt to warn and forewarn … of standards, doctrines, and practices relative to the family which the prophets, seers, and revelators of this church have repeatedly stated throughout its history.”
He then read the proclamation in its entirety. As the Lord has said, “Whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.”

Illustrations by Stuart Hill
High school. A necessary evil, I guess. Well, it’s not really evil, but the homework is. Especially in history. In my U.S. history class we’d learned about the Pilgrims and Puritans, the Founding Fathers, and the expansion from the original colonies. It all sounded familiar.
But when we got to the part about Manifest Destiny and the role Mormons played in the settlement of the West, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I knew that there were some controversial events and even controversial figures in Church history, but it seemed like the authors of my textbook were presenting the most negative interpretation possible rather than a factual overview.
“Mom, is this really true?” I asked.
I pointed to the page I was on, and my mom read the first paragraph and then stopped. “Wow,” she said. “Where did they come up with that information?”
The book had no footnotes, so we started checking some of the statements. It took hours, but we checked in the Doctrine and Covenants, cross-checked manuals online at LDS.org, and found original documents at JosephSmithPapers.org. It was so cool to see the handwritten petition for redress, which Joseph Smith personally delivered to President Martin Van Buren (President of the United States) and to learn more about what really forced the Saints to leave Missouri and settle in Nauvoo. We also searched for a few of the quotes and found more original documents online at the Illinois and Missouri State Historical Societies. They showed what the textbook had taken out of context.
My high school has over 1,600 students, and I’m one of only two Mormons. I didn’t want what we were reading to be the only thing the kids in my class ever learned about the Church. (I also checked and found out that this U.S. history book was first published in 1981, which means thousands of high school students had been taught false information.)
I’m not the type to draw attention to myself, but because I’d found out that so much of what was in our textbook was wrong, I decided to ask my teacher if he would let me make a presentation to my class. My mom helped me type up the corrections, but when I showed my teacher the pages of information, he just glanced at them and said, “When authors have to cover 80 years of history in a couple of paragraphs, they aren’t going to be able to include all the details.”
I was really disappointed. I knew I could talk with my friends and point out specific errors, but there was no way for me to help the 25 other kids in my class—not to mention the kids in my teacher’s other classes—understand the truth about Mormons. I didn’t know what to do.
A week later my teacher changed his mind. He’d actually read the information I’d given him and realized that the authors hadn’t just skipped parts of Church history or shown one side of it; they’d actually made up things that weren’t even based on the truth. He wanted our class to know what was real, and he even wanted to publish what I’d given him so all the teachers in our school district could use it as a resource!
Like the scriptures say, even a little candle, when set on a hill, can give a lot of light (see Matthew 5:14–16).

When Miss Nonchello asked the class to bring a treat to share in honor of Thanksgiving, Ying was excited to ask her mother to bake bread.
“I will make a special bread for your class,” Mom said before Ying went to bed that night.
Ying spent the night wondering what kind of bread Mom would make. She pictured herself taking cinnamon bread to class. Everyone would like cinnamon bread. Or what if Mom made honey bread, like Emily’s mother made? Her classmates would like that too.
Thinking about it made Ying’s tummy rumble. The next morning, Ying imagined she could smell the aroma of baking bread. Then her eyes popped open. She really was smelling something!
Ying jumped out of bed and got ready for school. Hurrying to the kitchen, Ying saw Mom wrapping something in foil.
“What did you make, Mom?” Ying asked eagerly.
“Bread,” Mom replied as Ying peeked under the foil.
Ying jumped back, staring at the flat pieces of bread she saw. It wasn’t honey bread or cinnamon bread. She didn’t think it was bread at all!
“That isn’t bread,” Ying said, disappointed. “It’s like pancakes.”
“Well, in the Chinese culture, we consider it like bread,” Mom said.
“My classmates won’t want to eat it,” Ying said with a frown. She was worried about seeming different.
“You never know,” Mom said, smiling. “Different can be good, and this bread is part of our family’s heritage.”
With a grumble, Ying took the Chinese bread to school. She knew Mom wanted her to be proud of her family, but she could only imagine her classmates laughing when they saw her treat.
A few of the students brought pumpkin pie. Others brought popcorn and candy. Seeing how different her treat was, Ying tried to hide the bread behind the large punch bowl at the back of the classroom.
“What’s that?” Steve asked.
“Bread,” Ying murmured.
Before Ying could stop him, Steve opened the foil and took a sniff.
“Ooohh!” Steve said loudly.
A crowd of classmates gathered around to stare at the flat pieces of bread. A few tears formed in Ying’s eyes as she braced herself for laughter.
“That looks wonderful!” Miss Nonchello said. “Who made this?”
“My mom did,” Ying said, blushing.
“It smells delicious,” Miss Nonchello said. “Ying, why don’t you tell us about it?”
“My mom said it was Chinese bread,” Ying said quietly. “But it doesn’t look like bread to me.”
“I think everyone is excited to try some,” Miss Nonchello said.
And with that, the feast began. Ying’s classmates all took a piece of the bread. Afraid to try it herself, Ying nibbled on popcorn and pumpkin pie.
“This is good!” Steve called out.
“Yeah!” Emily said as she took another piece of bread. “It’s even better than my mom’s honey bread!”
“Really? You think so?” Ying asked.
“We all think it’s great,” Miss Nonchello said with a smile. “Come have some, Ying.”
Ying nervously lifted one piece of the flat bread from the pile and took a bite. It was delicious!
“I guess Mom was right,” Ying thought. “Different can be good.” She smiled as she took another bite, proud of her family and their delicious heritage.

At a recent stake conference, the stake president shared a story with me. He asked his son what was discussed at a recent Sunday evening fireside. The young man replied, “Raising the bar.” He then informed his father that he was weary of the theme because it was the subject of every recent class and meeting. My first thought was, “That’s great; the prophet’s message is being discussed, heard, and acted upon.” My second thought related to the young man’s feelings concerning repetitive reminders. Repetitive reminders can be an irritant when we are trying hard to do our best.
As a youth I would tune out my mother’s repetitive reminder: “David, remember who you are.” The reminder always brought some interesting comments from my friends. Irritation set in when my father repeatedly pointed out President George Albert Smith’s home as we traveled along 13th East in Salt Lake City and reminded me that a living prophet of God who loved me lived there. Today I am most grateful for those repetitive reminders.
The term “raising the bar” is often used in the world of sports to describe achieving higher levels of performance. The use of a sports metaphor may help describe why it is critical to respond to what President Hinckley asked us to do last conference when he said: “I hope that our young men, and our young women, will rise to the challenge [Elder Ballard] has set forth. We must raise the bar on the worthiness and qualifications of those who go into the world as ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Zing! The rope barrier springs away and Neal spurs his quarter horse into the arena in pursuit of a scrambling steer, overtaking it as his father hazes the frightened animal closer to him. Moving at a hard gallop, Neal slides far sideways in the saddle and takes hold of the steer, right arm hooking one horn, left hand grasping the other. For a moment his body forms a perilous bridge between the horse and steer. Then his hand-tooled cowboy boots jerk free from the stirrups and tread clouds for an instant before hitting the hoof—softened dirt in a jolting cloud of dust, plowing a double furrow as he brakes against his own momentum and 600 pounds of charging steer. The muscles of his broad shoulders bunch under his western shirt as he turns his momentum, strength, and more than 180 pounds of solid bone and muscle into irresistible torque, levering the wide horns clockwise. The steer resists, teeters, and then crashes helplessly onto its side.
The judge’s flag drops. Time—6.2 seconds. Neal grins up at his father through the dust and applause, then scans the stands for his mother. Ignoring the burning weal that the horns have left on his ribs, he releases the animal, stands up, and stoops to dust off his western-cut jeans.
Neal Gines, 17, from Kamas, Utah, and his father have just won another first place in bulldogging.
Later, as Neal sprawls out, all 6?5? of him, on the front room floor, he eyes the shelves of trophies that loom on the wall. Over 100 trophies, plaques, and belt buckles glisten in the shaft of sunlight peeking through the curtains. There are trophies for every member of the family: his dad’s chariot racing trophies, Lana’s softball trophy, Marla’s rodeo queen plaque, and Tim’s football “Mr. Hustle” trophy.
Then there are his trophies: his all-state basketball and football trophies, his state farmer trophy, and his belt buckles from rodeo events, and his state steer wrestling saddle. But even though the trophies look impressive, Neal feels that the real value came from achieving them—the work, the sweat.
“The trophies really aren’t that great. Other things are more important—like them,” Neal says proudly as he nods toward the kitchen where his parents’ voices can be heard.
“They spend a lot of time with me and sacrifice a lot for me, which means much more to me than a trophy. In fact, I try to give my belt buckles away, but mom tells me to save some for my kids,” he adds with a grin.
He shies away from talking about his accomplishments, preferring to talk about what he’d still like to achieve. “I still haven’t got the best time I think I can get,” he says in reference to his bulldogging. “Maybe next week.”
In the kitchen, his mother, obviously proud of Neal, relates her feelings:
“He’s a goal setter, and he’ll work until he accomplishes them. Someone once told him, Neal, you’ll never be a basketball player. You’re too slow and clumsy. Well, Neal practiced years to prove that if he wanted to play basketball, he’d play basketball! Last year he made ‘All-state,’ and participated on an all-star team.
“But more important to me than his awards in sports is the type of boy he is. Whenever he’s going to be late, he calls. And after his dates, he comes in and tells us he’s home; then we usually go to the kitchen and talk and munch on cookies.
“I’m secretary at the high school, and when Neal sees me in the halls he puts his arm around me, and teases me about being his girl. I’m more proud of him because he’s active in the Church and wants to go on a mission and has a strong testimony than because he’s a good athlete.”
August 16 is rainy and gray, but just before the rodeo the rain stops; The grounds are filled with Rocky Mountain Rodeo Association members, and everything smells like wet hay and leather. Neal throws his long legs into the saddle and heads for the barrier.
“Come on, Fran, let’s give it our best shot,” he whispers.
The rope barrier springs back and they charge out. Mud flies as Neal leans, grabs, twists, and pins the steer. Time—3.35 seconds! Neal’s fastest time ever! With a big smile he glances toward the stands where his family sits.
The morning is quiet. On his way out of the house to feed the horses, Brother Gines glances at the shelves of trophies and stops. He stands there, silent, silhouetted against the early morning light, looking at Neal’s basketball trophy and remembering the long hours Neal practiced to prove that he wasn’t clumsy. As he stands there, he recollects the times he and Neal have spent together.
“Back when Neal was younger, we milked the neighbor’s cows. It was Neal’s job, but I went anyway, figuring that it was important to be with him. We talked about horses and football and bulldogging and the Church. We grew closer together, understanding each other, becoming best friends.
“When Neal started bulldogging, I became the hazer (the one who guides the steer in a straight line). It’s kind of symbolic, both of us coming out together, with me hazing to keep the steer from running wild so Neal can grab him and throw him to the ground. We work well together, we’ve done it for so long. I can tell if Neal is hurt, how bad it is, whether it is just another scrape to add to his scars, or whether the horns have dug deeper this time. I never say much, but I’m right there.
“One time I’ll never forget is the afternoon we hiked to the top of the mountain looking for deer. When we got to the top, we just sat there, talked, and forgot about the deer. Neal was at that age when he wanted to know things. That was one of the best father-son interviews we’ve ever had.
“As Neal grew older, we didn’t stop doing things together. My wife teases us about being inseparable, but a father likes to know that his son wants to spend time with his old dad,” Brother Gines adds with a smile.
On cool fall nights they work outside together, joking, trying to hurry and get the wood stacked so they can go in and eat. They spend long hours hauling hay; taking trips to the saw mill to gather shavings so the animals can have the “softest beds”; walking quietly through the just-fallen snow, tracking down pheasants; going downtown to get a malt. They are still inseparable, still best friends.
“Need some help feeding the horses, dad?” Neal asks as he walks into the room.
Brother Gines turns to see Neal all dressed, ready to help. “Sure,” he replies.
Together they walk out into the bright morning.
Editor’s note: On August 26, 1980 (while this story was being written) Neal Gines died from injuries inflicted by a lightening bolt while he was working as a telephone linesman. “I’ve always had a testimony of living forever as a family,” said his father. “Neal was prepared. Now we as a family must be prepared. I know that we will be together again.”

In the four months after my mother died, I tried to cope with the loss as best I could, but I often felt alone and helpless. Our extended family all lived out of state and had already done a lot anyway. With obligations at school and home and other activities, I felt overwhelmed. My life had been turned upside down.
While in this preoccupied state of mind, I received a call from my Beehive adviser. She asked if the Beehives could come and clean our house. I quickly agreed, not needing to look around to know that help was needed.
At seven the next evening, my smiling classmates and Beehive leaders knocked on the door. What a sight! They were armed with cleanser, rags, brooms, brownies, music, and happy attitudes. We got to work, and for that moment all of my problems were forgotten.
A little later, our Young Women president appeared behind me and asked if we had any gardening clippers. Where had she come from? Then I took a step outside. Priests were mowing the front lawn while the Laurels were fixing up the bushes and flowers. It was as if I had entered a dream world where all I needed to do was open a door and people were there to do whatever was needed.
Several Laurels came up and hugged me. I guess I hadn’t been dreaming after all. I could clearly see the love of Christ radiating in everyone that night, and I realized how precious the gospel was to me. I didn’t just belong to a ward but to a much larger family who could be there when I needed them.
I realized the goodness of Church members who were so willing to give their time to serve others. I felt fortunate to be friends with such youth. Allowing me to partake of their kindness was the greatest gift they could have given me. It made me think of the scripture in Matthew 7:20, “Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.” [Matt. 7:20]
In the next months my family received many more acts of kindness from neighbors and ward members, but I’ve never forgotten that one evening when, instead of doing something more fun, the young men and women did extra chores out of the goodness of their hearts.

I would like to tell you children of the Church to be worthy to receive miracles in your lives. Every day I remember a miracle that came to my family in 1973.
My wife, Mary, and I and our two daughters were living in Colombia, South America. We had joined the Church in 1968. There were no temples in South America then, but we wanted to be sealed in the temple. We could not afford to buy airline tickets to go to one, so a friend of mine asked the owner of a travel agency to give us a five percent discount on our airfare. The travel agency owner was not a member of the Church and was not even a religious person, but when he found out why we needed the tickets, he gave us a pass that could be used to go to any city in the United States. Mary and I were able to be sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. The following year, our daughters, Maritza and Liana, were sealed to us.