Gospel Story Finder

Twelve-year-old Ramon placed the steel ring up around the bottom of the pear to determine its size. The ring slipped easily about it. No, Ramon thought, this pear won’t do—it’s still too small.
He tried another pear, and the ring wouldn’t fit around the fruit’s greatest width. “Good,” he said out loud to the old dog, Cleveland, lying in the shade at the bottom of the tree. Ramon picked the pear and placed it in the almost-filled sack that hung over his head and shoulder.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. A little breeze wound its way through the long rows of fruit trees. It felt good—but not as good as the cold lemonade his grandmother had made for him.
Ramon climbed down the ladder, placed his pickings in a basket, and sat down beside the dog. He unscrewed the lid from the canteen and took a long drink. Resting against the tree, he stroked the big dog and gazed down the length of the big orchard. From where he sat, he could count twelve baskets of fruit. “Not bad for one morning, huh, Cleveland? Grandpa Alban will be happy. He’ll have a lot of fruit for his stand today.”
The boy dug in his shirt pocket and took out a small, worn photograph. Posed beside him in the picture was his mother. He ran his finger across her countenance, and his eyes misted. It was the first time since he’d been adopted that he’d been away from her. Linsey and her husband, Peter, had taken the legal measures to make him a part of their family when he was only two years old. Now Peter was dead.
Ramon rested his head against the tree trunk and gazed down the road that wound past the orchard to his grandparents’ home. About two months before, he had ridden down that road with his mother. It had been a two-day trip by car from Horsely Springs, where he and his mother shared a small apartment.
More than once while they traveled, his mom’s eyes had welled up with tears at the thought of not seeing him for the summer. But a decision had been made after earnest prayer, and she knew that he would be in good hands with her parents. Her lack of education and experience had made the going rough for them, but a special three-month training class being offered back east would qualify her for a better-paying job. “I know I can do it, Ramon,” she assured him. “With God on our side, there isn’t anything we can’t do.”
Ramon admired and took great comfort in his mother’s courage and faith. He was trying to build up his own faith. He was sure that the pear ring on the ground beside him would easily fit around his faith, but he was confident that it would grow, just like the fruit that the old man had nurtured so well. The two young missionaries who had brought the restored gospel of Jesus Christ to him and his mother last year had promised that, with effort, it would, indeed, grow.
A little cloud of dust above the far end of the orchard told Ramon that Grandpa Alban’s flatbed truck was on its way to collect the baskets of picked fruit. Ramon warmed at the sight of his grandfather.
Grandpa Alban poked his head out the truck window as he neared, his eyes rounding at the sight of the long row of baskets brimming with fruit. “I said it before, young man, and I’ll say it again: I’ve never seen a better picker in all my days!”
Ramon chuckled and pointed to the old dog at his feet. “Well, Grandpa, I have a good helper.”
A hearty laugh burst out of Grandpa. “I figure you have a raise coming, son.”
“You pay me enough already, Grandpa.”
The old man smiled but insisted, “Didn’t your sweet mama ever tell you that it’s easier to argue with a fence post than with your grandpa? Besides,” he added, “you’ve earned it.”
“I’ll put it toward my mission,” Ramon relented with a happy enthusiasm that puzzled his grandfather.
“You really feel strong about that church you and your mama joined, don’t you? Most kids your age with money to spend would sink it into video games, movies, or whatever.”
“I won’t save it all for my mission, Grandpa,” Ramon assured him. “Ten percent of it goes to tithing, and a little more of it I’ll give you toward gas to drive me to church each Sunday.”
Grandpa shook his head. “This church of yours requires a lot of sacrifice, it seems to me.”
“The missionaries told us that sacrifice brings blessings. Like Mom is sacrificing now so she can get a better job to take care of us. It isn’t easy for either of us, but …” Ramon hesitated, searching for the words to explain. Then he said, “You have a beautiful orchard, Grandpa, with a lot of beautiful fruit.” He held up the sizing ring. “Almost every piece of fruit I held this ring to was too big to go through. You had to sacrifice, Grandpa, for this orchard to grow the way it has. You had to spend a lot of time working and tending it—” Ramon picked up a large piece of fruit from the basket—“but look what your sacrifice brings.”
Grandpa smiled. “Hey, Ramon, who’s teaching who here?”
That night the high-pitched whine of a mosquito awoke Grandpa. He slapped at it, then lay waiting for sleep to again overtake him. He noticed a light shining beneath Ramon’s door across the hall. Lifting himself up on an elbow, Grandpa Alban gazed at it curiously. The creak of the bed awoke Grandma. “What is it, honey?” she asked.
“That light under Ramon’s door. It’s—” he glanced at the clock—“it’s after eleven o’clock! What could Ramon be doing at this time of night?”
Grandma smiled. “He does the same thing every night.”
“Does what, Francie?”
“Reads.”
“Reads?”
“From a book of scriptures he has, called the Book of Mormon. Go back to sleep dear, he’ll be just fine.”
How can anyone work all day and then stay up so late reading? he wondered as he drifted off to sleep.
The screech of a hawk circling above cut through the silence of the noonday sky like a paring knife. Ramon took the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it about his head to keep the sweat from running down into his eyes. He climbed down the ladder, filled a basket, and picked up the container of lemonade. He was about to take a swallow, when he spied what looked like his grandfather seated under a tree at the far end of the orchard. That’s unusual, he thought. Grandpa never just sits. He’s always busy doing something. Maybe he’s sick.
Ramon walked quickly to where his grandfather sat. Grandpa Alban was gazing off into the hills, his eyes wet with tears. When Ramon made his presence known, Grandpa tried to mend his composure.
“Are you all right, Grandpa?”
“Actually, no,” he said, his open candor taking Ramon aback. “I’ve just been pretending far too long that I am all right.”
Ramon sat down beside his grandfather. After a heavy silence, Grandpa went on. “I’m a proud man, Ramon. I always have been, I guess—too proud to ever own up to my mistakes. On top of that, I’ve always figured it would be too hard and painful to change. But something you said yesterday got me thinking. …”
What can I say? Ramon wondered. I don’t really know what he’s talking about. The boy offered a silent prayer for Heavenly Father’s help. Suddenly repentance and the Lord’s great plan of redemption that the missionaries had taught came to Ramon’s mind, and words came to his lips. He was so moved that he began to cry. This, in turn, deeply touched the old man, and he clung to every word that his grandson spoke.
It was two days later, just after Ramon had loaded two baskets of fruit into a customer’s car, that Ramon’s sapling faith began to flower. As he turned back toward the fruit stand, he saw a look on his grandfather’s face that he had never seen before. It was a look of sweet resolve, of courage. “What is it, Grandpa?”
“Would you mind if I went to church with you next Sunday, Ramon? I’d like to ask the missionaries to come talk to me.”
Later that afternoon, as Ramon picked fruit, he paused and gazed at the ring he held in his hand. He wondered if it would still fit around his faith—and his joy. He doubted it.

Neighbors are a blessing because they help us and also because we can help them. As a young man preparing for a mission, I had a neighbor who was a wonderful missionary. I shoveled his walks in the winter and mowed his lawns in the summer. Each time I finished, he invited me into his home and shared some of the finest Dutch chocolate in the form of an orange ball. It was sent to him by a person he had baptized as a missionary.

When he shared that chocolate, he also shared his mission and the love he felt for those great people of Holland he taught. Our conversations and his love for missionary work were an important part of my decision to serve a mission.

When I was a deacon like many of you young men, my father and I hiked to a mountain stream to fish for trout. As my dad attached the bait to the hook on the end of my fishing line, he told me that I would need to set the hook in the fish’s mouth when it tried to take the bait, or it would get away. I did not understand what it meant to set the hook, so he explained to me that the hook needed to be embedded in the fish’s mouth when it struck at the bait so it could not shake the hook loose and that the hook would be set if I quickly pulled back on the pole when the fish tried to take the bait. Now, I really wanted to catch a fish, so I stood on the bank of that mountain stream like a coiled spring, every muscle taut, waiting for the telltale movement at the end of my pole which would signal that the fish was trying to take the bait. After a few minutes I noticed movement at the end of my pole, and in that instant I jerked back on the pole with all of my strength, expecting a big fight with the fish. To my surprise, I watched as that poor trout—with the hook now set very firmly in his mouth—was launched from the water into the air over my head and landed on the ground flopping behind me.
I have two observations from that experience: First, a fish out of water is miserable. Although its gills, fins, and tail work very well in water, they are all but useless on land. Second, the unfortunate fish I caught that day perished because it was deceived into treating something very dangerous—even fatal—as worthwhile or at least as sufficiently intriguing to warrant a closer look and perhaps a nibble.

I straightened up in my seat in English class when I heard the topic of the next speaker: why the Mormon Church is wrong and why Mormons are hypocritical haters. During the speech, I felt my cheeks burn, and shock and betrayal settled within my chest. How could my very own friends, knowing I was LDS, choose to say slanderous remarks in front of my entire class?
After the bell rang, I was approached by the speaker and some of my other friends. With the Spirit burning inside me, I told them what they said was wrong and that the Church doesn’t hate people who don’t live our beliefs. In return, they bombarded me with false statements and accusations. I felt alone. I thought, “How is it fair that when I am living what I know to be true, I must constantly be persecuted?”
When I got home from school that day, I saw an email from my grandma. In it she told me to look up Matthew 5:11–14. With tears in my eyes, I read: “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you. … Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.”
The Holy Ghost filled my heart as I read those words. I know that persecution can strengthen our testimonies, and I know that the blessings in heaven will be well worth the pain we go through here on earth. The Savior made it possible for us to find peace when we are being persecuted for living His gospel, and for that I’m truly grateful.

I should like to tell you of an experience I had when I was called to go to New Zealand to reorganize a stake. I had never met anybody living in New Zealand, other than the president of the stake at that time. I asked for a list of the bishops and high council in that New Zealand stake, and as I read over the list I saw one name that just seemed to stand out. The name was Campbell. Each time I read the list I noticed it. Bishop Vandenberg was with me, and we interviewed all these people, after having prayed that we might be guided.
After all the interviews I said to Brother Vandenberg, “Let us call upon the Lord for direction.” We did, and as we stood up I asked, “If you had the responsibility, whom would you choose as president of this stake?”
He said, “Bill Campbell.” I had never mentioned his name to Bishop Vandenberg. This was another evidence that the Lord does direct these appointments.

I did like seeing my friends at church. And every Sunday after church, my dad and I would talk about the gospel. One Sunday we talked about prayer. I said I felt like I was talking to the air. My dad helped me understand more about prayer. We talked about how I was afraid of being called a goody-goody or being known as too “churchy.” My dad helped me realize I didn’t have to let negative labels keep me from doing what’s right.

“First,” Grandpa began, “you have to imagine the place that I call ‘the old country,’ the place where I was born. My village wasn’t a town as you know it, but a small cluster of cottages and shops built along seldom-traveled dirt roads. Everywhere there were poor, shabbily dressed people. Why, they would’ve thought that I was a king if they could have seen me dressed like this.” And he snapped the strap of his bib overalls for emphasis.
“And speaking of kings, the leader of the old country taxed and imprisoned the people unfairly, sometimes forcing them to join his private army. Because of this, many people began to talk against him. They gathered at secret meetings where they talked of ways to overthrow him. The ruler knew that they hated him, so periodically he sent his soldiers throughout the country to show his strength and to question the people, hoping to discover his enemies.
“In my village every family, no matter how poor, had a flag because a flag was considered protection against the soldiers. If a house had a flag hanging from it, it was not as likely to be searched.
“I have a picture in my mind,” Grandpa Max continued, “of my last day in the old country. I was only four years old, but it was a day that I will never forget. My parents had been packing all night, loading our wagon with all our possessions. We were going to make our escape early in the morning.
“The next morning, of all days, the king’s soldiers rode into town to make one of their searches. Our closest neighbor came to warn us.
“Mother had us take off our traveling clothes and put on our everyday work clothes so that we wouldn’t look suspicious. Father pulled the wagon around to the back of the house and hid it in the trees. “Suddenly Mother remembered the flag. Nearly everything inside our small home had been packed into the wagon, and though we searched frantically, we couldn’t find the flag.
“I remember that that’s when I began to cry. Far down the road I could see all our neighbors’ houses draped with the hated flags. Hurriedly my father dumped a bundle of linens on the ground. Rummaging through it, he found the flag. He raced around to the front of the house and hung it up. That picture of my father hanging the flag is my last memory of the old country.”

The Church in Taiwan offers many examples of those who have made the right decisions. Hsiung Kuan Ping, bishop of the Taipei Third Ward, Taipei Taiwan East Stake, remembers his father as one of those examples. “My father served as a bishop for many years,” Bishop Hsiung says. “The church was like our home. My father loved it. Every day he made sure the doors and windows were closed. I helped clean the meetinghouse and at age 14 began assisting the clerk. Now I’m very busy with work and family, but because of my father’s influence I make time for Church service. If I put the Church first, I find I have easier success in my work and family.”

When he finally returned home, Elder Poulter felt discouraged and embarrassed about the meagre results of his three years in the mission field. In time, his perspective changed and some 40 years later, he was inspired to share this experience in a Sunday School class.
“I bore my testimony that our part in the Lord’s plan is not always apparent. I never learned what had become of the Hu family, [but] I don’t have to; doing the Lord’s work is its own reward.”
Three days later, Elder Poulter received a letter that had been forwarded to him via a missionary in Taipei. It was from a Mr. Hu Wei Yi. In the letter, Brother Hu, now in his 80s, recounted his family’s baptism and reported that he had been a patriarch, a temple sealer and was even set apart by President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) to be a translator.
The list of titles Mr. Hu translated included all the books Elder Poulter had given him, plus many more, “and then I read, The Book of Mormon. I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Elder Poulter writes. Yes, the Book of Mormon, the revealed word of God was translated into the second most spoken language in the world, by a humble man who had been prepared by the Lord to meet a pair of faithful missionaries.

In December 23, a birthday party was going on inside the warm, cozy home of Norma and Stan Jones. But instead of “Happy Birthday to You,” the family was singing “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, no. 29), a favorite hymn of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
As the strains of music filled the pine-scented air, Benjamin Jones, their 21-year-old grandson, was filled with love, appreciation, and excitement. He was preparing for a mission and couldn’t wait to share his testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
You see, Ben’s grandma, Norma, has gathered her family and special friends together each December for 38 years to celebrate the Prophet’s birthday by studying his life and teachings. But for Ben, this December 23rd was special because the seeds of love and respect for the Prophet these firesides planted in his heart finally took root.
“I’ve always had a testimony, but I haven’t always made the best choices,” says Elder Jones, of the Salt Lake River Oaks Second Ward, now serving as a full-time missionary in West Virginia. “However, when I saw the death mask that artist David Lindsley brought to our party that year, all of a sudden the Prophet became more than just a story I had heard many times or a painting on the wall. He came alive for me. I had been studying, praying, and searching for the direction my life should take, and I knew at that moment that Joseph Smith was truly a prophet of God.”

Christmas was just three days away, and there were huge piles of snow by the barn and corrals. Grandpa had pushed them there with his tractor so that Mom and Grandma could go to the store when they needed to. The windows in the house were covered with frost, and my brothers, Alma, Aaron, and Jared, and I knelt on the sofa and pressed our hands against the glass to melt little peepholes so that we could look out into the night.
Grandpa’s haystacks looked like huge cupcakes topped with white sugar frosting. His cows, huddled under the sheds, were blowing big puffs of steam from their noses and bunting each other to find a warm place on the straw.
“Well, have you seen any deer?” Grandpa asked, coming up behind us.
“Deer?”
“Sure,” Grandpa said, winking. “I’ve never seen as many deer as I have this year. There’s so much snow in the mountains that the deer can’t find enough to eat, and they come down and dig in the fields and meadows for grass. Sometimes they even nibble at my haystacks.”
“Really?” I asked.
Grandpa nodded his head. “That’s a fact, Jarom. About this time every evening they start coming down the mountain.”
We pressed our faces against the icy glass until our noses and cheeks were numb with cold.
“It’s too dark to see much,” Aaron said, still squinting through his peephole.
“Do you really think there might be some deer now?” Alma asked.
Grandpa laughed. “Why don’t you boys get your boots and coats on. We’ll go out and turn on the Christmas lights. Maybe we’ll see something.”
Before Grandpa could say another word, all four of us were racing for the kitchen closet. We pulled on our boots, squeezed into our sweaters, tugged on our coats, and jerked our knit caps down over our ears. Finally we were ready to go.
Grandpa carried Jared, who is only two, and took me by the hand, while Alma and Aaron led the way outside. The cold burned our cheeks and made our eyes water. As we clumped across the snow, it crunched and chittered under our boots and made us laugh and want to stomp on it some more.
We tromped around to the back porch, and Grandpa flipped a switch. Suddenly there were twinkling yellow, red, blue, and green Christmas lights everywhere! Grandpa had tiny lights around his windows, along his roof, on the shrubs, and in the trees. He had a big fat Santa on an old poplar stump. And out in the middle of the lawn, under the apple tree, was a lighted manger scene.
For a while we just stood on the back porch and admired Grandpa’s lights. Then Grandpa motioned for us to be quiet and to follow him. We crossed the lawn and came to the alfalfa field fence. Grandpa slowly pulled a big flashlight from his coat pocket.
“Watch,” he whispered. He turned on the flashlight, and a skinny finger of yellow light jabbed into the night, cutting across the field. At first we couldn’t see anything but a few fuzzy shadows. Then we saw some orange sparkles out in the field.
“What’s that sparkling in your field, Grandpa?” Aaron asked, pushing against the fence so he could see better.
“They look like eyes,” I said.
“They are eyes, Jarom.” Grandpa chuckled and squeezed my hand.
“They are?” I asked. “Whose eyes are they?”
“They’re deer eyes. My alfalfa field is their favorite spot.”
“Do you think they belong to Santa?” Alma asked with a grin. “Maybe he lost them.”
Grandpa laughed. “Well, if Santa needs any deer, there are plenty of them here. There are probably twenty or thirty in the field right now.”
That night when my brothers and I went to bed, we couldn’t sleep. We each wrapped up in a blanket and crept to the bedroom window. Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa were still talking in the kitchen.
None of us said anything for a while. We just stared out the window at Grandpa’s lights and squinted to see if we could spot any deer. Soon Jared fell asleep, and Alma and Aaron carried him to his bed. Just as they were covering him up, I whispered, “Look! A deer!”
Alma and Aaron hurried back to my side. “Where?”
“Out by the old poplar tree stump, where Santa Claus is standing. It’s just a shadow now, but it was moving.”
“I can’t see anything,” Aaron grumped. “That’s just—”
“It moved!” Alma cut in. “It is a deer!”
“He must have come to see Grandpa’s lights,” I joked.
“It doesn’t look very big,” Alma said.
For a long time we watched the deer wander around the bushes and trees, sniffing and nibbling. It even stopped by the manger scene and looked in at Joseph and Mary and the Baby Jesus. In fact, it ambled up to the house and stopped right by our window.
“He sure is a curious fellow,” Alma murmured.
For the longest time we watched the curious deer tiptoe around Grandpa’s yard. Suddenly it pricked up its ears, held its head high, and looked toward the highway, where the yellow lights of a car peeked over a hill and moved toward us. The deer bounded into the shadows and disappeared.
“I guess the car scared him,” Aaron said. “Looks like he’s headed across the road for the mountain.”
We thought our deer was gone forever. Then, when the car lights were right in front of Grandpa’s house, we heard the screech of brakes and a terrible thump.
“The deer!” Alma shouted, jumping up and starting down the hall.
Aaron ran after him, but for a moment I just stared out the window, trying to see the deer. The car had stopped, and Grandpa and Dad were running up the driveway to the road.
I pulled on my pants and shirt over my pajamas, stomped my feet into my shoes, and hurried down the hall. Mom and Grandma and Alma and Aaron were all looking out the kitchen window. I put on my coat and slipped outside before anyone saw me. I raced up the driveway to the road where the car was.
“Well, Brother Rawls,” Grandpa was saying, “I really can’t tell how badly he’s hurt; he just looks stunned.”
I saw our curious deer lying by the side of the road. He tried to get up but fell back down with his head lying on the snow. He looked sad and cold. Before Grandpa and Dad knew I was there, I ran over and knelt be side the deer. At first he jerked back, so I whispered, “I won’t hurt you,” and I touched one of his big ears.
“What are you doing out here, Jarom?” Dad asked. “I thought you were in bed.”
“We were watching out the window. We saw everything. Is our deer going to die?” I asked, looking around at Grandpa.
Grandpa tugged on his ear and came over to me and the deer. “I don’t know, Jarom. If he doesn’t have any broken bones and if he’s just bruised and shaken up, he might be all right.”
“Can we put him in your barn until he’s well?” I asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”
Grandpa looked back at Dad and Brother Rawls. “Well, maybe. But you can’t keep him, you know. You can’t keep wild animals. We’ll have to let him go if he gets better.”
“Let’s try,” I pleaded. “We have to try!”
Dad carefully picked up the little deer. The animal shivered just a little and shook his head and tried to kick his long, skinny legs. But Dad held him tightly.
“I don’t think he’s hurt much,” Dad said. “I think he’s just in a daze. Maybe a night in the barn will do him good.”
I ran ahead of Grandpa and Dad and opened the barn door and turned on the light. The barn was full of hay and straw, and I could smell the rolled oats in the grain bin.
“Let’s put him in the old horse stall,” Grandpa said. “We can shut him in there, and he won’t be able to run around and hurt himself.”
I scattered some straw around and got a pan of oats and an armful of hay. Then Dad laid the deer down. For a moment it lay real quiet on the straw with its eyes dark and wide and its nose quivering and its ears pricked up. Then it kicked its legs and pushed itself to its feet. For a moment it wobbled on its shaky legs and hung its head down, but after a while it limped around in the stall, sniffing the corners and smelling the straw.
“He might need some water,” Grandpa said. “Maybe Jarom—”
Before Grandpa could finish, I was out of the barn and halfway to the house. I burst into the kitchen and shouted, “Grandma, do you have a pan? Grandpa sent me for some water for the deer.”
Grandma got one of her old plastic buckets and filled it half-full of water, and I ran back to the barn with it. Grandpa and Dad and I stayed out there for a while, making sure everything was all right. Then we went back to the house, and Alma, Aaron, and I crawled back into bed.
“What’s the deer like?” Alma asked.
“Does he have horns?” Aaron wanted to know.
I laughed. “No, he’s just little, probably not even a year old.”
“Can we keep him and take him back to Arizona with us?” Aaron asked.
“No,” I explained, “Grandpa said you can’t keep wild animals. We’ll just make sure he gets well.”
“Maybe he’s one of Santa’s reindeer,” Alma said excitedly.
I smiled. “I think he’s too little to pull anybody’s sleigh.”
“We ought to give him a name,” Aaron said.
“Let’s call him Rudolph,” Alma suggested.
“That’s too much name for such a little deer,” I pointed out. “Why don’t we call him Rudy? That’s a good little-deer name.”
For a long time we lay in bed whispering about Rudy. Finally Alma asked, “Do you think Rudy will get better?”
“He just has to!” I said.
“Maybe we should pray for him,” Aaron whispered. “Then he’ll get better for sure.”
Quietly the three of us crawled out of bed and knelt down. Each of us said a little prayer for Rudy, our curious Christmas deer.
The next morning, before it was even light, we were all up and dressed and out in the barn, peeking into the stall at Rudy. He still limped a little, but I could tell that he was much better. He had nibbled at the hay and had eaten half the oats I’d given him the night before.
All that day we took care of Rudy. Grandma gave us some carrot sticks to feed him, and we changed his water every hour or so and made sure his grain box was always full. We kept throwing straw into the stall until Grandpa said that there wasn’t any room for Rudy. But we made the floor nice and soft for him to lie on.
That night we wanted to sleep in the barn with Rudy and make sure that he was all right and didn’t get scared, but Mom wouldn’t let us. Before crawling under the covers, we each said another little prayer for Rudy.
Rudy stayed in Grandpa’s barn two days. Then on Christmas Eve Dad and Grandpa said that we should let him go.
“Oh, but it’s Christmas, and it’s cold outside,” I said.
“And he’ll get hungry,” Alma added.
“And he might get run over again,” Aaron put in.
Grandpa shook his head. “Rudy’s a wild deer. He belongs outside so that he can run with the other deer. He wasn’t ever meant for a pet.”
We didn’t want to, but just before supper we opened the doors of the stall and the barn. At first Rudy seemed almost afraid to leave the barn. But as soon as he crept to the open door, he poked his nose out, looked around, and bounded up the driveway, across the road, and into the sagebrush on the mountainside.
That night after we had sung some carols, listened to the Christmas story, hung our stockings, and crawled into bed, Alma whispered, “I wish we had been the shepherds or the Wise Men and had taken gifts to the Baby Jesus. My Primary teacher said that at Christmastime you’re supposed to help people, and we haven’t helped anyone. I sure wish we had made someone’s Christmas special.”
“We helped Grandma make popcorn balls for the Bensons,” Aaron said.
“And we helped wrap presents for the Wilsons,” I pointed out.
“But I wish we could have done something for someone all by ourselves,” Alma sighed.
I rolled quietly out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Grandpa’s lights were twinkling in the night. The big Santa was glowing brightly on the old poplar tree stump. The manger scene was lighted up under the barren apple tree. Then I saw a shadow moving out by the bushes.
“It’s Rudy,” I whispered loudly.
Soon Alma, Aaron, and Jared were pushing their faces against the icy glass. Sure enough, Rudy was down on the lawn again, sniffing and creeping around, just as curious as ever. We all held our breath as we looked out the window. Rudy came closer and closer until he was right by the window. We tapped lightly on the windowpane, and Rudy looked toward us. For a long time he just stood there staring. Then he flipped his short, stubby tail once, turned, and bounded into the night.
“We did help someone this Christmas,” Alma said quietly.
“We did?” I asked, rubbing my cold, wet nose.
Alma nodded. “We helped Rudy. We helped him get well.”
“But is that anything?” Aaron asked.
“Of course,” I said. “All the animals belong to Heavenly Father. He cares about them too. Rudy needed help, and we took care of him. Helping Rudy was our special Christmas gift.”
All four of us nodded our heads, took one last look out the window, and crawled back into bed.

Cameron used another student’s question about his beliefs as an opportunity to gain a sure testimony for himself. In his freshman year someone asked how he could believe that Joseph Smith really saw what he claimed to have seen. Cameron studied the history of the Church and began reading the scriptures every night. He explains what happened a little while later when that student asked him the same question again:

“He said, ‘Don’t you think that’s silly that something like that happened so close to the present time?’ And I said, ‘No, I don’t think it’s silly. I think it’s great.’ Later on, he told me that he ended up having more respect for me and other LDS students because of that.”

I was born in 1929 in Meissen, Germany. My parents were simple people. My father was unemployed for many years, and my mother worked in a factory. When World War II began, my father was immediately called to military service and became a prisoner of war in 1945.
My parents were not happy in their marriage, and when my father returned from the war in 1947, they divorced. My world fell apart.
I was eighteen when my father left our apartment to live alone. I lived with my mother, but there were many conflicts. Kindness, warmth, and understanding were foreign to me, and I began to lose faith in the possibility of living a harmonious life. I gave my all to my job, but my life had no real meaning. As the years went by, an iron wall developed around my heart.
When my mother died in 1991, the emotional pains of my childhood flooded back to me. I felt forlorn, once again like a lost child.
Just two months later, the missionaries found me. They spoke quietly, with understanding, warmth, and kindness. The spirit they radiated penetrated my iron heart, and on 11 November 1991 I was baptized.
Since that day, peace has entered my heart. I have learned to pray, to fill my mind with the scriptures, and to live according to the Word of Wisdom. Of course I have much to learn, but I will gladly do it, because I know that our Heavenly Father is with me every day, helping and leading me. I have found peace at last.

On a warm summer evening, my son Paul was playing with friends near our home. Nearby was a group of teenagers. One of the teenagers started smoking something bad. She called to Paul, “Hey, do you want to try this?”
Paul remembered what he had learned at school and Primary and from his parents. He looked right into the girl’s eyes and said, “No! Drugs are bad for you!”
The girl took the drug out of her mouth, threw it on the ground, and crushed it with her shoe.
Later, Paul curled up on my lap and told me about it. I am grateful that Paul has been taught that drugs are bad for the body and that he had the courage to try to be like Jesus Christ and obey His commandments.

Two hours after our fifth child, Angelique, was born, she began crying with every breath and started to turn purple. We realized something terrible was happening.
Medical tests indicated that Angelique had group B streptococcus, a serious illness for newborn babies. She was immediately transferred to a hospital that specialized in such problems. I was weighed down by worry as my new baby was taken away in an ambulance.
After I was released from the hospital two days later, I went directly to see Angelique. As I walked into the neonatal intensive care unit, I was gripped with fear. Two doctors and many nurses were surrounding my daughter. She was hooked up to so much machinery that I could hardly see her little body.
I pulled one doctor aside and asked, “Will she live?” He looked at me grimly and said, “We aren’t sure at this point, but we will do everything we can for her.” He asked me to go home and rest.
As my husband drove me home, we did not speak. We were both too worried. My husband went back to the hospital to give our daughter a blessing and to spend the night outside the intensive care unit.
That night as I tucked our other four children into bed, my oldest, who was seven, cried because she couldn’t hold Angelique. We had told the children that Angelique might not live, but they didn’t really understand.
I went to my room and offered the most sincere prayer of my life. I told Heavenly Father how much I loved Angelique but that He could take her if that was His will. I explained that I knew we were an eternal family and expressed gratitude for my temple marriage. In that instant a feeling of peace, love, and even happiness came over me—a feeling I’ll never forget.
I then had a distinct feeling that Angelique needed to hear our voices. My children had often “talked” to Angelique before she was born. She had been with us when we said family prayers, when we ate dinner together, and when I was singing. Now she was hearing only strangers in the hospital.
I woke the children, and they eagerly took turns sharing messages with Angelique using a tape recorder. We sang familiar Primary songs and told her how much we loved her. We told her that we would care for her and do things with her if she would get better. The next morning I took the tape recorder to the hospital and asked the nurses to lay it at the end of Angelique’s bassinet and play the tape for her continuously.
When I returned to the hospital later in the day, an excited nurse greeted me and told me the most amazing thing had happened.
Angelique was on a respirator that recorded when she was breathing on her own and when the machine was doing the work. When our tape was playing, she started to breathe on her own half the time. When the tape stopped, the machine would do all of her breathing for her again. It was amazing to watch her little body perk up when the tape played. The nurses played the tape around the clock. Angelique slowly recovered and was able to come home two weeks later.
I believe strongly in the power of prayer and a family’s love. I have a testimony that Heavenly Father does hear our prayers and that if we seek His will, He will inspire us through the Holy Ghost.

“I have heard that only 2 percent of the population is born with extraordinary talent. Most people have to work to become good!
“Let me give an illustration: Half a century ago a boy of ten was working in Naples in a factory. He longed to be a singer, but his first teacher discouraged him.
“‘You can’t sing,’ he said. ‘You haven’t any voice at all. It sounds like shutters.’ But his mother, a poor peasant woman, put her arms around him and told him she knew he could sing. She could see an improvement already, and she went barefoot in order to save money to pay for his music lessons. That peasant mother’s praise and encouragement changed her boy’s life. He was to become one of the world’s greatest tenors. His name was Caruso.
“You mustn’t give false praise, but instead, be like this mother and find the good. Then give your sister the genuine praise that she seeks.”
Bruce Wendell BarkerJacksonville, North Carolina

I joined the Church at age 36, and at times I felt spiritually strong. Other times I just went through the motions. Between a hectic work schedule, my wife starting a new career, poor health, and other challenges, I began to struggle spiritually. I attended church and helped teach the deacons quorum, but that was all I could bring myself to do. I couldn’t find the strength to open my scriptures or kneel to pray.
I was still struggling when I left on a business trip to northern Chile. From the airport in Copiapó, we drove two hours to the site for a solar installation project in Chile’s Atacama Desert. I was surprised by how remote this region was, only red desert for miles and miles. The loneliness of the landscape was startling.
After being on site for about a week, we drove to the nearest town for supplies. There I saw a building that caught my eye. I asked the driver to pull over. The building had beautiful grounds that were surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. On the front of the building was a familiar sign, “La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Últimos Días” or “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“The Church is here?” I thought. I was amazed that the Church had made it to this remote part of the world. I took a picture of the meetinghouse and texted it to my wife. Her response had a profound effect on me: “Heavenly Father is aware of His people everywhere.”
This was a direct message for me from my Heavenly Father. In the stress of living day to day, I had forgotten, and needed to be reminded, that Heavenly Father loves all His children. He loves those Saints in that small and remote town in the middle of the desert, and He also loves me.
That night I knelt and thanked Heavenly Father for the blessings He had given me that day. Knowing that He loves me has helped me rebuild my spirituality, and it continues to strengthen me each day.

Doug had always loved sports. Maybe it was because they almost all required running, and running was his favorite activity. As a child he ran everywhere. If you saw someone walking you knew you weren’t looking at Douglas Padilla. “I didn’t like to just wait around. Why walk if you can get there faster by running?” And of course there were always races for an aspiring young runner—impromptu school ground and back lot challenges as well as the prestigious 50 yarders sponsored by the grade school. There was only one problem. “I was always getting beat. In fact, the girls all beat me.”
This was a great boon for equality, but it wasn’t a real ego booster, especially for a boy who already carried the burden of being the smallest boy in his class. But rather than throwing away his sneakers and giving up, Doug just kept running.
He is still running today. Seven times an All-American during his track career at BYU, he now runs for the Athletics West Track Club. He has been ranked number one in the world in the indoor 3,000 and 5,000 meters, and fifth in the world in the 5,000 meters outdoor. He has enjoyed wins in many important national and international competitions, including the 1983 World Championships in Helsinki, Finland. He was the top American qualifier for the 5,000 meters in the 1984 Olympic Games in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, he had health problems at the games and finished a disappointing seventh. Like the seasoned competitor he is though, he put it behind him as “just another race” and is back working his way to the top. He enjoyed a spectacular indoor season this past winter, winning five of the seven races he entered. He was the fastest American in the 3,000 meters, the 5,000 meters, the two mile, and the three mile.
Doug’s rise from neighborhood “also ran” to world-class runner didn’t happen overnight, of course. It took some fifth quarter effort along the way. Even when he was still the slowest kid around, Doug always ran in every race he could. Finally, in junior high school he got on the track team.
At last, all the running and fifth-quarter determination started paying off. Doug’s speed and endurance began to soar. His time in the two mile improved from 11:50 his freshman year to 9:17 his senior year, when he went undefeated in cross-country and won the league meet. He went all the way to state in the two mile, finishing 13th with a personal record of 9:15.4.
After high school, Doug was not deluged with scholarship offers. By college standards, he was still a very average runner. He did finally receive an offer from a junior college near his home, however. At the end of the first year there he surprised everyone, including himself, by running a 4:10.7 and winning the mile at the Northern California Championships. At this point, Doug decided to go to BYU. He didn’t have a scholarship or even an invitation, but he went anyway. When you’ve spent a whole year in the fifth quarter, you’re game for about anything. That fall he went out for cross-country and finished as the eighth man on the team.
Soon after the end of the cross-country season, Doug was called to serve a mission in El Salvador. His track career was a little shaky at best, and he had no particular reason to think that a two-year absence would improve it much, but his desire to follow the counsel of the General Authorities was strong. As he served the people of El Salvador through his calling, he began to change in many ways. He began to have a different perspective on sports and life in general.
“When you look at a high school athlete, he grows up with sports. He eats it and drinks it. That’s his life—everything. As you grow up a little more, you find out there’s a little more to life, and then you go on a mission and find out you don’t have to run and compete to be successful and to feel important as a person. Then your emphasis changes, and running isn’t necessary anymore. Many times sports are a means by which individuals can gain self-confidence and self-esteem. Many people go through an identity crisis. How important are they as an individual? As you go on a mission you realize that the Lord loves you and cares about you and is concerned with your being a good person regardless of how you are athletically. You come to realize that your relationship with people, school, your church callings, a number of things—all are important, not just athletics. You become a little more aware of life.
“I was always very small in high school and had little self-confidence, but now my confidence is in the Lord.”
The two years in El Salvador proved to be a blessing athletically. Even though Doug had little opportunity to run in the mission field, his body had a chance to mature. He returned stronger and faster than when he left. He was the 23rd American finisher in the NCAA cross-country championships that year, earning all-American honors. He was also part of a distance medley team that took second in the nation.
His junior year brought only moderate success. In the outdoor season he finished sixth in the nationals in the 5,000-meter run.
In his senior year he finished 15th in the cross-country nationals. Then came the golden indoor season that was to vault him into the aristocracy of the running world. He somehow managed to talk his way into the Sunkist Invitational meet, even though his times really didn’t qualify him for that level of competition. There he went head to head in the two mile with the great Suleiman Nyambui, the University of Texas at El Paso star. Doug had never beaten Nyambui, the silver medalist in the 500 meters at the Moscow Olympics, although as members of the same college athletic conference, the two had competed many times. This time Doug stayed right behind Nyambui throughout the race.
“When Suleiman moved out to take the lead, I stepped right out behind him. I stayed right on his tail. I decided that what I needed to do was surprise him when I went around him. It’s twenty-two laps on the indoor track for two miles. So I said, ‘with two laps to go, I’ll make my move.’ So that’s what I did. I made it right at the top of the turn. I cut a little close, and I just brushed him with my arm, and I think that kind of surprised him. I brushed by him on the outside just as he looked to the inside to see where everybody was. I think he was kind of startled, and by the time he recovered I had six or seven yards on him. And then I just ran like crazy. He never caught me. Indoors the race is often won by the man who makes the first move and doesn’t die. The crowd was amazed that Suleiman could be beaten, especially by me.”
This was a victory that any athlete could treasure for life, even if it was followed by no others, but in this case both Doug and most knowledgeable track people sensed that it marked a great turning point in his career, the beginning of something big, a rite of passage from just another good college runner to something different. Doug was edging into that elite circle of athletes who can be described as “world-class.”
In the Western Athletic Conference indoor track meet, Doug once again shocked everyone by beating Suleiman. Some had assumed that the first victory was a fluke—a very impressive fluke notwithstanding.
This set the stage for the indoor nationals. “I knew that Suleiman would be expecting me this time, and that I would have to move earlier than I had before. So I made a move with five laps to go, almost a half mile. That was quite a race. It was rough. He ran in lane two for almost the last five full laps. He tried to pass me repeatedly. I won by four-hundredths of a second.” Less than an hour later, Doug had to run the 5,000 meters. Not knowing how much he had left, he dropped to the back of the pack. With two and a half laps to go, he made his move, swinging wide around a group in front of him. He moved into third place with a lap to go, took second on the backstretch, and kicked hard in a grim charge to overtake Suleiman. He couldn’t quite catch him, finishing second.
In the outdoor nationals that spring, he finished fourth in both the 1,500 and 5,000 meters. His college career was ended, but he was still getting faster and stronger all the time. It was time again for the fifth quarter.
Even though there are many rewards in competitive running, it is not exactly what the average person would describe as fun. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Somewhere in the course of the race all the body’s needs and desires become reduced to one—to stop. “It’s a matter of losing your concentration. You slow down, and all of a sudden you look up and realize they have ten yards on you. You lose contact with what’s going on and they break you.” The successful runner must resist this, forcing his body to do his mind’s will.
“You have to decide beforehand what you’re going to do in a race, and then you go out and you do it. With my style of running I need to decide that I’m going to stay with certain runners no matter what until I start my kick at the end. Then it’s a matter of staying with that decision regardless of how I feel. Once you’ve gone through about half the race at a good pace, you lose a little bit of the awareness of how you feel. You just learn to concentrate more on staying with an individual. You put all your energies into it, and you mask out everything else. I used to wonder how bad I wanted to win, if I wanted success enough to be willing to hurt for it. It’s a matter of determining if it’s really worth it to you or not.”
If a runner wants to know the limits of his own potential, there is a price to pay. “If you go by how you feel, you’re always going to decide you don’t have enough, and so you’ll fall back. And if you push it, there’s always more than you think. And even if there isn’t, you’ll at least know where you stand.”
Does the gospel help Doug in his running? “It has given me confidence in myself. My mission had a lot to do with that. Realizing that I could go out and do something, that I could seek the Lord’s help in accomplishing something, helped me believe in my individual worth as a person, that I was important.”
How important is the gospel in his life? “There isn’t anything more important in my life than the gospel. It is much more important than running. There isn’t any comparison. If running is the most important thing in your life and you get injured or become too old to compete, then you are left with nothing. When I was a teenager I didn’t have this kind of a testimony or perspective. I was still learning. The Church was important, but I didn’t realize how important. My mission taught me that I can do whatever the Lord wants me to do—anything.”
Where does running fit into Doug’s vision of the gospel? “The Lord wants us to develop the talent that we have, and it’s a responsibility each person has, so in that sense, it’s something that I need to do. But I’ve always felt that it’s something the Lord wants me to do also. If I didn’t have the feeling that he wanted me to run, I probably wouldn’t be running now, just because in the years after I got back from my mission, I didn’t handle the pressure very well. It was a lot to go through, especially when you’re not doing that well, and there are other things more important to me in my life. Now it would be hard to imagine not running. But there’s an awful lot of pressure before a race. I’m extremely nervous. I have to eat five or six hours before I run or I will throw up. It’s just very unpleasant. Just imagine yourself standing up to talk in general conference, and you’ll have some idea. If I didn’t feel the Lord had some purpose for me in this I wouldn’t be doing it.”
Doug gained a great strength in his life on July 14, 1983, when he married Lynette Nielson of Golden, Colorado, in the Salt Lake Temple. “Marriage has been good to me,” he says. “I’ve got a great wife. She gives me a clearer perspective on running and on life.”
When will Doug stop running? “When the Lord wants me to stop.”
How will he know when that happens? “I just won’t have any desire to run anymore.”
That time isn’t in sight right now. The short, skinny kid who lost to the girls in grade school, who had to wait for the fifth quarter to play basketball, who ran just because he loved running, has grown up into one of the finest distance runners on the planet Earth. He knows now that if you work and wait long enough, giving it everything you have, your fifth quarter will come, because the fifth quarter is only for those with the courage to endure to the end.

Then one night Jim returned home from an institute class and asked me about several terms he had heard there. “Do you know what these mean?” He spoke them, and they bounced against the blank wall of my mind. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” I answered. As we talked, a suspicion arose in us, awesome, even terrible, that we did not fully understand the doctrines of this gospel we professed to believe in—that our knowledge was shallow and unenlightened.
We started a concentrated study program immediately. We went back to the beginning again to understand faith, baptism, repentance, and the Holy Ghost. We chose vacations with the express purpose of studying together, weeks or weekends, in quiet places where we could relax, research, pray, and ponder.
Growth and understanding came in sudden leaps, as well as line upon line. Our efforts again meant selflessness, sacrificing other interests occasionally, in order to keep pace with one another and to share what we learned with our family. To drag a foot was to slow the rest of us, and neither wanted to be guilty of that.
Today, gospel study and service continue to be a central activity between us, a privilege, we hold most precious. As we look back, our first successes seem small now. But we will always acknowledge a certain ray of light that came one late winter evening to two desperate, seeking newlyweds. The gospel has reaffirmed to us that selflessness and service are truly a vital part of our Heavenly Father’s formula for an enduring marriage.

My wife, Nancy, is also a convert to the Church. She has mentioned to me many times over the years the joy she has felt in her life since finding, accepting, and living the gospel of Jesus Christ. What follows is a reflection from Sister Maynes on her experience:

“As a young adult in my early 20s, I was at a point in my life when I knew I needed to change something in order to be a happier person. I felt like I was adrift with no real purpose and direction, and I didn’t know where to go to find it. I had always known that Heavenly Father existed and occasionally throughout my life had said prayers, feeling that He listened.

“As I began my search, I attended several different churches but would always fall back into the same feelings and discouragement. I feel very blessed because my prayer for direction and purpose in life was ultimately answered, and the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ was brought into my life. For the first time I felt like I had a purpose, and the plan of happiness brought real joy into my life.”