Gospel Story Finder

I don’t know what it was about Kathryn. No one really disliked her, but no one liked her, either. She sat quietly at her desk and did her schoolwork. She always got the highest score, but no one competed with her. It was like she wasn’t even part of the class—or the world for that matter.
When the bell rang for recess, most of us bolted for the door, nearly knocking the books from our desks. Not Kathryn. She sat still until everyone was out the door, and then she walked slowly behind.
I remember one day Mr. Ekhert, our fifth-grade teacher, called to her from the pitching mound. “Come on, Kathryn. Come play!”
I heard the boys moan, and I guess she heard them, too. She shook her head and wrapped her legs around the legs of the bench.
She’d played kickball with us before. Whenever anyone pitched the ball, she held out her hands and muttered, “Slow. No bounces.” No matter how fast or bouncy the boys pitched, she’d run toward the red rubber ball, swing her leg, and kick as hard as she could. She always missed. We’d groan, and large red splotches would burn her cheeks.
One day, in the middle of the year, Mr. Ekhert called roll like he always did. “Kathryn? Oh, that’s right.” He paused and marked something in his book. Then with a serious expression he looked up from his roll and said, “Class, do you know where Kathryn is?”
No one answered.
“Does anyone know where she’s been for the past week?”
I shrugged my shoulders and glanced at the other kids, who also seemed unconcerned.
Mr. Ekhert sighed. “She’s quite sick.” He peered at us over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I wonder if there is something any of you can do for her.”
I watched everyone slouch down in their seats, like I did. I thought if I shrunk somehow, maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty.
“Where has she been?” I wondered. “The hospital?” I felt ashamed that I hadn’t even noticed she was gone.
That day as I rode the bus home, I didn’t talk to my friends or even argue with the boy kicking the back of my seat. I stared out the window and thought about Kathryn. I didn’t know why she was so different. I didn’t even know why exactly no one talked to her. She was smart and nice. But she wasn’t pretty and she wasn’t funny; she never laughed at any jokes. She wasn’t good at any sports, but she wasn’t mean, either. I thought about Kathryn for a long time. When I tried to put her out of my mind, I kept seeing her face. “Maybe I should do something for her,” I thought.
That afternoon, my friend Kami and I rode our bikes to the store. As I gazed into the glass-covered candy counter, I saw a box of bracelets I’d never noticed before.
“Look at those.” I nudged Kami with my elbow. She shrugged, but I felt warm inside and knew I needed to buy one of those bracelets for Kathryn.
I counted the change in my pocket. I had exactly enough for the bracelet and a few pieces of candy. I plunked my money down on the counter, and the clerk put the bracelet and candy into a paper bag for me.
On the way home, I didn’t eat a single piece of candy, and when Kami asked for one, I said no. It felt strange, buying a present for someone I hardly knew. All evening I kept looking at the paper bag until finally I went to the closet and found a box to wrap it in.
The next day I felt like butterflies were flying around the back of my throat. I could hardly speak to anyone. When the three-o’clock bell rang, I threw my backpack on my shoulder and walked down the street past the buses. I followed the map my mom had drawn for me until I arrived at the right house. I swallowed and walked up the stairs to the front door.
“Hello,” an older woman said, opening the door.
“Is Kathryn here?” I held the package behind my back.
The woman stared at me in surprise. She pulled the door open and motioned for me to come in, not saying a word.
I don’t remember what her house looked like or any other details—I only remember the stunned look in Kathryn’s eyes as I walked through her bedroom door.
“Hi,” I said, pulling the package from behind my back. I handed it to her.
She took it but didn’t say anything. She opened the card I had written and then ripped a little hole in the package. I felt uncomfortable watching her open it, like I was intruding. She pulled the bracelet out and held it up to the lamp. Then she popped a piece of the candy into her mouth.
“Thank you.”
I stepped back and said, “I hope you feel better soon. See you at school.” Nervously I tripped out of her bedroom and left.
As I walked back to school, my throat felt swollen. I thought about Kathryn and about the look on her mother’s face when I came to the door. I don’t think anyone had ever gone to her house before.
I stood on the steps in front of the school and watched the late bus come around the corner. I did not know why I kept thinking about Kathryn. I didn’t even know if she would want to be my friend when she came back to school. I didn’t know what to think.
Suddenly, I imagined a smile spread across Kathryn’s face. Goose bumps popped out all over my skin, and I felt warm inside. I hoped I could become Kathryn’s friend when she came back to school. And I hoped maybe others would reach out to her, too. But no matter what happened, I knew I had done the right thing, and I knew that Heavenly Father knew it. He had helped me help Kathryn, and I would never regret it.

Two young boys in the Camas Ward, Vancouver Washington Stake, saved the lives of five other children in a house fire.
Jeffrey Albrechtson, 13, and Marlen Davis, 12, were babysitting the other five younger Albrechtson children when the smoke detector sounded. The boys led four of the children from the burning house. Marlen then reentered the house to look for three-year-old Justin who was in his bedroom. The smoke prevented Marlen from taking Justin out through the door so they broke a window and were pulled to safety by neighbors.
Through the children’s quick action, a tragedy was averted. All the children had been trained in fire safety and did exactly the right things under that emergency situation.

My older brother, Gary, is two years my senior and was born mentally retarded. He attended public schools until about fourth grade. Part of my early years were spent defending him from the teasing and taunts of his classmates. I couldn’t understand how anyone could be so unfeeling of his situation. Because of my experiences with my brother, I developed a sensitivity to people who are different in any way. We all need to be like Jesus and reach out to those who are different from us. Thinking about the Savior and making Him a part of our lives helps us develop compassion. Jesus ought to be our best friend. Through prayer and thinking about Jesus, we can develop a greater sensitivity to other people and their needs.

In a Friend magazine I read a story about a girl who made a visitor feel welcome. That Sunday we had a visitor in our ward, and I made a goal to always be kind to visitors or new members. I just got back from a vacation where I went to a different church building every week, and I remembered how I felt sitting by myself when no one would talk to me. Now I always try to make visitors feel welcome. I’m grateful for the chance I have to do this, and I hope it will help me grow closer to Heavenly Father.

The Church is one of Sue’s greatest sources of guidance and comfort. At a youth conference, the bishop challenged all of the youth to pray for confirmation that the Church was true even if they already had a testimony.

Sue accepted the challenge although she had some reservations. “I felt I didn’t need to ask because I know the Church is true. But I wanted to tell my friends about my testimony before I graduated from high school. They sometimes tease me about being a Mormon.”

Sue did pray, but the answer didn’t seem to come. Then one day she was with some friends, and suddenly she was in the middle of a serious conversation about the Church with one of them. The friend asked, “How do you know that it is true, Sue?”

“Suddenly I realized that Heavenly Father was giving me an opportunity to say that I do know the Church is true. Here I was bearing my testimony, telling her this is the truth. I didn’t realize until that night that my prayer had been answered.”

The friend then asked if she could go to church with the Keller family. Soon she was attending seminary with Sue and receiving the discussions from the missionaries. “It’s been wonderful,” Sue said. “I’ve never done that with a friend before.”

There is another story that means a lot to me. We had a woman from Mexico who has worked for us for 12 years. She heard we were going to Mexico City to deliver wheelchairs. She informed us that she had a nephew in Mexico City whose name was Angel. He had a terminal disease. He had first lost his eyesight and had now lost his mobility. She asked if we could give him a wheelchair so he could be mobile during the limited time he had to live. I said yes and told her to have his parents come to our distribution. His parents found us and were crying. They said that Angel had received his wheelchair and wanted to thank me. They brought him in his wheelchair, and I spoke to him so he would know where I was. He then took my hands and looked up with his blind eyes into my eyes and said, “I’ll see you in heaven.” I was not able to even answer him.

Among the new members in Canada were many with relatives and friends in England. They wrote letters explaining their conversion and became anxious to bear their testimonies personally to their friends. The groundwork was already being laid for the spread of the gospel. Several months before Joseph Smith had fled from Kirtland, he had called Heber C. Kimball, Orson Hyde, Willard Richards, and four Canadian converts to open the British mission. They arrived at the port of Liverpool, England on July 20, 1837.
These missionaries contacted friends and relatives and then began to work generally among the people of England. After nine months of preaching—in churches whenever they could, in rented halls, or door to door—they counted nearly two thousand converts. Most of the elders returned home that spring,. leaving Canadian Joseph Fielding to preside over the mission, with Willard Richards (not yet an apostle) and William Clayton, a British convert, as counselors.

Kate Bateman, a Canadian and friend of the Church, arrived in the Dominican Republic as a visitor too, but upon losing her documents on the beach, she ended up staying longer than planned. The community cared for Kate in her time of need and the bond that was forged prompted her to return to Puerto Plata with suitcases full of school supplies. When the children saw the supplies, they naturally thought she was their teacher, so that is who she became. Joined by Sister Zobell, the Palmers, the Giles and others, her school was expanded, and more children were served.

President David O. McKay frequently said: “It is better to be trusted than to be loved.” A good friend of mine learned the importance of this and the significance of being a person of integrity at a relatively young age in life.

In one of her high school classes, there was a requirement to attend a lab period before school officially began. It was early in the morning, and in order to get credit for this lab, the students would sign their names in a roll book at the beginning of the class period. This roll book was located on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. One morning, while standing in line waiting to sign the book, Roxanne, a very popular girl in school who was standing in the doorway, motioned my friend to come and talk. She did, and Roxanne asked her if she would sign her name for her so that she could get credit for attending the class even though she wouldn’t actually be there. Roxanne was a student body officer and had to attend a special meeting for the student body officers. Without hesitating at all, my friend said, “Sure, I’ll do that for you.’ She didn’t really know this girl very well. She was someone whom everyone liked and who was very popular in school, but she was only an acquaintance of hers.

Meanwhile, she went back to the desk and signed her name. Then, below her own signature she signed Roxanne’s name in her handwriting. The teacher was obviously smarter than my friend and realized that there were twenty students attending class, and twenty-one students who had signed the roll. Because the handwriting was the same, she knew that my friend had signed Roxanne’s name for her.

In the middle of the lab session the teacher announced that there was a discrepancy in the number of students who had signed the roll and the number who were there in class. Then she called out my friend’s name and asked that she go to the back of the room while the rest of the class continued their lab assignments. This teacher then proceeded to impress upon her a most important lesson, one that she was never to forget. She can’t remember most of what the teacher said to her, except that she was very embarrassed and ashamed. But the one thing she does remember was this question that the teacher asked: “Why were you willing to sacrifice your integrity for the sake of that girl?” You see, she was a very good student, a student who was trusted and respected in that high school, and she had let her teachers down. She was willing to sacrifice something that was most precious to her because of peer pressure, because of the fear that someone wouldn’t like her if she didn’t do a favor for her. My friend learned in a very significant way that it is more important to be trusted than to be loved, that a person’s integrity is of supreme importance.

I learned to swim in the swift-running currents of the Provo River in beautiful Provo Canyon. The “old swimming hole” was in a deep portion of the river, formed by a large rock which had fallen into the river, I assume, when the workmen constructing the railroad were blasting through the canyon. The pool was dangerous, what with its depth of sixteen feet, its current, which moved swiftly against the large rock, and the sucking action of the whirlpools below the rock. It was not a place for a novice or the inexperienced swimmer.
One warm summer afternoon when I was about twelve or thirteen, I took a large, inflated inner tube from a tractor tire, slung it over my shoulder, and walked barefoot up the railroad track which followed the course of the river. I entered the water about a mile above the swimming hole, sat comfortably in the tube, and enjoyed a leisurely float down the river. The river held no fear for me, for I knew its secrets.
That day the Greek-speaking people in Utah held a reunion at Vivian Park in Provo Canyon, as they did every year. Native food, games, and dances were the order of the day. But some left the party to try swimming in the river. When they arrived at the swimming hole, it was deserted, for afternoon shadows were beginning to envelop it.
As my inflated tube bobbed up and down, I was about to enter the swiftest portion of the river just at the head of the swimming hole when I heard frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young lady swimmer, accustomed to the still waters of a gymnasium swimming pool, had fallen from the rock into the treacherous whirlpools. None of the party could swim to save her. Suddenly I appeared on the potentially tragic scene. I saw the top of her head disappearing under the water for the third time, there to descend to a watery grave. I stretched forth my hand, grasped her hair, and lifted her over the side of the tube and into my arms. At the pool’s lower end, the water was slower as I paddled the tube, with my precious cargo, to her waiting relatives and friends. They threw their arms around the water-soaked girl and kissed her, crying, “Thank God! Thank God you are safe!” Then they hugged and kissed me. I was embarrassed and quickly returned to the tube and continued my float down to the Vivian Park bridge. The water was frigid, but I was not cold, for I was filled with a warm feeling. I realized that I had participated in the saving of a life. Heavenly Father had heard the cries, “Save her! Save her,” and permitted me, a deacon, to float by at precisely the time I was needed. That day I learned that the sweetest feeling in mortality is to realize that God, our Heavenly Father, knows each one of us and generously permits us to see and to share His divine power to save.

“Someone’s sure kicking up the dust, Papa. Do you think he’s rushing here to buy our apples?” David asked as he nudged his father’s arm.
David’s father raised his hand to his eyes, squinting into the sunlight. He watched the approaching horse and rider. “I guess word has got around that we have the best apples in the county,” he teased.
“John Chidester!” yelled the man on horseback. The rider waved to signal to John and his son to stop.
“Here, David. You take over,” Papa said as he handed the reins to his son. “I’ll get ready for our customer.” He climbed over the backboard and into the wagon.
As the approaching horse drew near, David exclaimed, “Papa, it’s the Prophet!”
The horse slowed to a trot as it neared the slow-moving wagon. “John, I need your help!”
“Brother Joseph! What can I get for you today? A dozen apples, maybe two?”
“I need the whole wagon!” the Prophet exclaimed. He pulled the reins on his horse and slid off the saddle. “A mob is coming around the bend!” he said as he motioned down the dirt road. “Hide me! Quick!”
“David! Rein the horses!” commanded his father. “Help me rearrange the apples!”
David stopped the horses. He jumped into the back of the wagon and helped his father quickly scoop away armfuls of apples. They made a space big enough to hide a man.
“Hide here,” Papa said. He extended his hand to the Prophet and pulled him into the wagon.
“Thank you, John,” Joseph said. He crawled into the empty space. David and his father covered Joseph Smith with apples.
“Papa, look!” David exclaimed, pointing down the road. “They’re coming!”
Papa climbed out of the wagon. “David, get back onto the wagon seat and turn the wagon around. Take the shortcut back to town. I’ll distract this mob.” Papa mounted Joseph’s horse and galloped off into the opposite direction.
David clicked his tongue at the horses and commanded, “Get home!” The horses trotted toward town. But they were not quick enough. The wagon was soon overtaken by the mob.
“Hey, boy, stop those horses!” shouted a man from behind. David turned to see one of the mob galloping up to the wagon. Other men were close behind. David could not see his father. He felt scared. He pulled the reins on the horses.
“Search the wagon!” commanded the man.
David quickly looked down at the wagon full of apples. To his horror, he noticed the Prophet’s feet poking out of the pile of apples. But it was too late. There was nothing he could do.
Three men got off their horses and ran to the wagon. David silently prayed, Please, Heavenly Father, protect the Prophet. Hide his feet from these men. The men rummaged through the wagon.
“Apples! That’s all that’s here! Just apples!” one of the men shouted to his leader. He turned to David. “Your old man was right, boy,” he sneered. “Bunch of apples. He and his horse didn’t have to be tied up to a tree after all.”
“Joe Smith must be heading to town on foot,” yelled the leader. “Let’s head him off!”
Remounting their horses, the mob galloped off toward Nauvoo.
David was relieved. Heavenly Father, he silently prayed, I thank thee for answering my prayer. David realized that the danger wasn’t over yet. He still had to get the Prophet to safety. And he had to get help for his father. He whipped the reins to start the horses. They again headed toward town.
The wagon came to a fork in the road. David remembered that his father had told him to take the shortcut. He steered the horses to the left.
Suddenly a flash of lightning struck just ahead of the wagon. The horses jumped in fright, and David was thrown backward. He dropped the reins. The horses began to run out of control.
Clinging to the backboard he struggled to reach the reins, pleading to Heavenly Father for help. Finally he managed to lower himself to the footboard and grab the reins. Bracing himself against the seat, he pulled on the reins.
As the horses slowed to a trot, he realized that they had reached Nauvoo. He drove the wagon to the Prophet’s home and delivered him to safety.
“David, that was some ride,” Joseph said as he climbed out of the wagon. He reached up and shook David’s hand. “Thank you. You saved my life.”
“With Heavenly Father’s help,” David answered. “I prayed for protection the whole way. Now I need to help my father.”
“No need to worry about your father, David,” Joseph said. “He seems to be all right.” The Prophet pointed down the road.
David turned to see his father approaching on horseback. “Papa!” David jumped from the wagon and ran to his father. “You’re safe! But how?”
“Some travelers saw me and rescued me,” he said as he dismounted the horse and gave David a hug. “I’m glad you’re safe! How did you get past the mob? Some of those men planned to hide on the shortcut road and take you by surprise.”
“We started down that road, Papa, but there was a lightning strike, and the horses went wild and wouldn’t take the shortcut road. They ran so fast that they nearly toppled the wagon!”
“I believe we were well protected”—Joseph approached them and placed his hand on David’s shoulder—“thanks to your prayers.”

Thomas Giles, a Welsh convert who joined the Church in 1844, suffered much in his lifetime. He was a miner, and while he was digging coal in the mine, a large piece of coal hit him on the head and made a wound nine inches (23 cm) long. The doctor who examined him said the injured man would not live longer than 24 hours. But then the elders came and blessed him. He was promised that he would get well and that “even if he would never see again, he would live to do much good in the Church.” Brother Giles did indeed live but was blind the rest of his life.
In 1856 Brother Giles and his family moved to Utah, but before he left his homeland, the Welsh Saints presented him with a harp, which he learned to play well. At Council Bluffs, Iowa, he joined a handcart company and headed west. “Though blind he pulled a handcart from Council Bluffs to Salt Lake City.” While crossing the plains his wife and two children died. “His sorrow was great and his heart almost broken, but his faith did not fail him.” When Brother Giles arrived in Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young, who had heard his story, loaned Brother Giles a valuable harp until his own arrived from Wales. Brother Giles “traveled from settlement to settlement in Utah, … gladdening the hearts of the people with his sweet music.”1

The field is so big they call it the Plain. The ranks of soldiers who will march across it seem so endless they call them the Long Gray Line. And even though heavy rain is forecast, more than 10,000 spectators are on hand. It is, after all, commencement time at West Point, New York, home of the U.S. Military Academy. For graduates, this is their final parade as cadets.
As the troops marshall themselves on the field, one small group stands in front, stiff at attention, the black plumes of their “tarbucket” hats ruffling in the breeze. These are the cadet commanders. And the tallest, and second in command, is Shaun Greene, deputy brigade commander—and returned missionary.
How Shaun got to this point, to be among the highest cadet officers as well as in the top 5 percent of his class academically, is a story of faith, inspiration, and perseverance, or as Shaun might say, of learning to put first things first.
When he was 14, Shaun, a native of Roseville, California (near Sacramento), received his patriarchal blessing. “At age 14, I was not known as a particularly religious guy,” Shaun says. “But the stake patriarch was moving, and my parents thought he was a great guy, so I prepared for the blessing and got it.”
One phrase in the blessing startled Shaun. It mentioned serving in the military, and told him that if he was obedient he would be protected in time of war. “There were other things that were quite specific, as far as having a family for example, but the sentence about the military really affected me,” Shaun explains. “I’d always been interested in the military, but I hadn’t told the patriarch about that and I’m sure he didn’t know.”
The words of the blessing stayed with him. As he reached college age, he planned to attend the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. But a misunderstanding about an eye examination disqualified him, so he accepted an academic scholarship at Brigham Young University instead.
“I was thinking that if I was going into the military, then I’d get into pre-med and become a doctor,” Shaun says. But his pre-med studies left him dissatisfied. “I quickly found that wasn’t what I wanted to do.”
At the same time, Shaun felt a growing testimony that the gospel was true. He heard the prophet say all worthy young men should serve a mission. It sounded like a case of putting first things first.
“A mission wasn’t something I had really planned on until then. My parents would talk about me going on a mission and I’d just smile. But when I started looking into the Church for myself, I became converted.”
He was called to serve in the Taiwan Taipei Mission. “BYU did some terrific things for me,” Shaun says. “But I think the mission did even more. I saw the gospel in action. I learned to try to love as the Savior loves.”
At the end of his mission, Shaun again felt prompted to act on the words of his patriarchal blessing. Getting into the military now seemed to be putting first things first, so he wrote to West Point. He also wrote to his senator and congressman, since cadets can only enter the military academy by senatorial, congressional, or presidential appointment. And even though he had attended college and served a mission, he met the age limitation (you can’t be older than 22) by ten days.
Shaun’s record at West Point has been outstanding. He is one of only a few cadets ever to make it through four years without a single demerit. He served as regimental commander for cadet basic training. He’s been on a cultural exchange program in China and Hong Kong. He’s had dinner with senators and generals, been interviewed by the national media, and he’s on line for a scholarship that will allow him to study in the Orient, then pursue a graduate degree at Harvard University.
Talk to Academy administrators and you’ll hear things like: “He’ll make a great addition to the army.” “He’s somebody who can get things done.” “He’s already a seasoned officer. He’s just masquerading as a cadet.”
And the story could end right there, except there’s another person involved, another Latter-day Saint who, thanks to the promptings of the Spirit, put first things first and found her way into Shaun’s life.
Several years ago, Amy Stohl didn’t know exactly why she accepted a position as an au pair (similar to a nanny) with an LDS military family living in Belgium. She just felt right about it. She enjoyed her time with the Robert McBride family, and they became close friends.
Soon, however, Amy was back at BYU, where she continued work on her pre-med requirements. But she became convinced that medical school just wouldn’t be right for her, and she switched to a humanities major.
A couple of years later, the McBrides, now assigned to the U.S. Military Academy, called to tell Amy about a cadet named Shaun Greene. He’d been a student at BYU before, but was now at West Point. He was going to be at BYU for a couple of days in the fall to watch a football game, and they’d like her to meet him. Shaun and Amy got acquainted and began writing to each other.
By January, Amy was close to graduation, but was planning to stay at BYU for one more semester. “But I became restless,” she says. “I prayed for guidance, and I felt something important was coming up.”
She talked to the McBrides and decided to move to Manhattan. “I found a place to live, had a job lined up, even arranged to finish my degree by correspondence,” Amy says. “Everything seemed to be working out.
“But when I visited West Point, I had a strong impression that I had to stay, isolated as it was, so that I could understand Shaun and what he had been through. I don’t know that anyone can fully understand a cadet’s thinking without spending time at West Point.”
The understanding grew. In fact, now Shaun and Amy see each other every evening.
It’s graduation day at West Point. Time for the final parade. And even though rain will soak cadets and spectators alike, it won’t matter. Tomorrow the sun will shine, bright and hot, and the graduates, dressed in white because their gray uniforms were ruined by the storm, will receive their diplomas and commissions from the President of the United States.
A few days later, Shaun and Amy will enter the Washington D.C. Temple to be married for time and eternity. Oh, sure, by July Shaun has to report for additional training. But before that, there’s a honeymoon to attend to. It’s a matter of putting first things first.
In a place that prides itself on tradition, LDS cadets are glad to be building a tradition of their own—that of having returned missionaries graduate from West Point. Even though cadets already appointed to the Academy must resign in order to serve a mission, many are able to be reappointed once their mission is complete.
“Returned missionaries have a good reputation here,” says Drew Syphus of Altadena, California, who served in the Italy Milan Mission. “Those who have come back have performed so well it’s made it easier for others who want to go.”
In fact, RMs at the USMA return to school with added maturity and experience, qualities that stand out in the military. “You gain patience in the mission field,” says Clint Pincock, of Blanding, Utah, who served in the Taiwan Taichung Mission. “You learn to stick with it when things get tough. You learn to be sensitive to other people and cultures. It’s really impressive when you tell cadets and teachers about your experiences.”
What’s more, cadets say the Academy—with its emphasis on physical fitness, good study habits, time management, organizational skills, and leadership—provides good training for those preparing for a mission.
“One summer I had 57 people at my command,” says Vince Barnhart of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. “I had to learn to think on my feet.” After doing that for five weeks, he says, “knocking on doors in England wasn’t intimidating.”
And of course you’ll never hear a cadet-turned-proselytizer complain that the rise-early-and-study-hard schedule at the Church’s Missionary Training Center is just too tough.
There are approximately 4,000 cadets at West Point at any given time; roughly 70 of them are LDS. At the time this article was prepared, there were ten returned missionaries at the Academy, five cadets preparing to leave on missions, and eight former cadets in the mission field (of four soon to return, three are coming back to the corps). Says Robert McBride, West Point’s branch president, “The Academy administration is accepting more and more that a mission can be a good thing for a cadet.”

It was a Thursday afternoon, and Carrie Roberts was on her way home from her piano lesson. She pedaled her bicycle down Mimosa Street past the park.
“Carrie! Carrie Roberts!” someone called.
Carrie turned toward the park. She saw her friend Peggy waving at her.
Carrie rode her bike over to Peggy.
“Hi, Peggy. What are you doing here?”
“I’m helping Mark. He’s practicing his running.”
Mark was Peggy’s retarded younger brother. Although Carrie felt sorry for Mark and knew that he wasn’t responsible for his condition, she felt uncomfortable around him.
Carrie watched Mark run awkwardly around the big track. “Why is he running?” she asked.
“He’s going to be in the Special Olympics next Saturday,” said Peggy proudly.
“What are the Special Olympics?” Carrie asked.
“They’re like the real Olympics, but they’re for handicapped kids,” Peggy explained. “They run races and everything.”
Just then Mark finished his run. He was panting, and his face was red.
Peggy hugged him. “That was good, Mark! Do you remember Carrie?”
Mark grinned a friendly, crooked grin. “Hi, Carrie,” he said. The words were slurred, as though his mouth was full of marbles.
“Hi, Mark,” Carrie replied. She tried to think of something else to say to him, but her mind was blank.
“I have a great idea, Carrie,” said Peggy. “Why don’t you come to the race Saturday? You can be a hugger.”
“What’s a hugger?”
“Huggers hug the kids after they finish their races. Everyone gets lots of hugs at the Special Olympics. Will you do it?”
“Well …” Carrie hesitated, trying desperately to think of an excuse. But she couldn’t. “I guess I can,” she said.
“Great!” Peggy said enthusiastically. “Be at Lincoln Junior High Saturday morning at ten o’clock.”
On her way home, Carrie felt awful. “I don’t want to be a hugger!” she muttered. “I’ll have to think of some way out of it.” She looked up at the sky. “Maybe it will rain.” The thought cheered her up a little.
The first thing Carrie did Friday morning was look out the window. The sky was clear and blue. During school that day, Carrie looked out the window periodically, hoping to see some clouds. But by the time school was out, she had given up hoping for rain. She would have to think of something else.
When Carrie got home, her mother was painting. “Are we having company tomorrow, Mom?” Carrie asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Do we have to go anywhere tomorrow?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mom said. She put down her paintbrush and looked at Carrie. “I thought you were going to the Special Olympics tomorrow.”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“I guess I’m not too crazy about hugging a bunch of retarded kids,” admitted Carrie.
“Oh, Carrie! They may look and sound a little different, but they’re Heavenly Father’s children, too, and they need hugs just as much as the rest of us do.”
“I suppose so,” said Carrie. But she was not convinced.
The next morning Carrie was almost cheerful as she rode her bike to the junior high school. Late last night she had finally thought of a plan to get out of being a hugger. Reaching the school grounds, she found Peggy standing with Mark. He was wearing a bright red T-shirt.
“Hi,” said Carrie, in a low, raspy voice.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Peggy.
“I have a cold,” Carrie said. She coughed. “I won’t be able to be a hugger because these kids might catch my cold.”
Peggy gave Carrie a funny look. “That’s too bad.” She turned to her brother. “Come on, Mark. It’s almost time for your race.”
“Good luck, Mark,” said Carrie in her raspy whisper.
Peggy and Mark walked away. Carrie sat down on one of the wooden bleachers near the finish line. She could see Peggy and Mark at the starting line on the other side of the oval track.
Carrie looked around. Lots of the kids looked and sounded like Mark. Boy, am I glad I found a way to get out of being a hugger, she thought.
Peggy left Mark at the starting line with the others and ran across the oval to the finish line. Carrie motioned for Peggy to sit by her, but Peggy didn’t seem to see Carrie. Instead she stayed on the inside of the track. Carrie’s heart sank. She realized that Peggy knew she was faking the cold.
Mark lined up with four other children. The starter’s gun sounded, and the runners took off. At first all five were bunched up together. Then slowly a boy in a blue shirt began to pull away from the others. Soon Mark, pumping his legs up and down, began to catch up to him.
As the runners rounded the curve, Carrie could see the look of concentration on Mark’s face. He was really trying hard!
“Come on, Mark!” Peggy was shouting over and over.
As they got closer to the finish line, the boy in the blue shirt stumbled and fell. The crowd in the stands groaned sympathetically.
“Come on, Mark!” someone yelled.
But Mark stopped. He helped the other boy up and then helped him brush the dirt from his knees. The other runners passed them and crossed the finish line.
Mark held the fallen runner’s hand. Together they crossed the finish line. Mark grinned and raised his arms high.
Carrie felt tears in her eyes. She pushed her way through the crowd and hurried over to Mark. He grinned at her. She held out her arms and enfolded him in a big bear hug.
“That was a great race, Mark!” she exclaimed.
“Peggy is lucky to have you for a brother.”
Carrie looked at Peggy.
“Do you still need a hugger?” she asked.

President Kimball’s visit to Australia was the second official visit of a president of the Church. The first was President David O. McKay in 1955. When President McKay was in Brisbane, Australia, the mission president one day took him out to see the city. During the course of the day they were looking across the Brisbane River into a new suburb which was known as Chermside. President McKay said to the mission president, “Do we have any missionaries in that area?” The mission president said, “No.” President McKay said, “Send the missionaries in, for the people are ready.” Missionaries were sent into the area and they enjoyed tremendous success. Today Chermside is part of the Brisbane Fourth Ward of the Brisbane Australia Stake.

Many years ago, a non-Mormon scholar, told an interesting story on the BYU campus in Provo. It deeply impressed me with the strong connection between the first and second generations of pioneers and the present generation of young people and converts in the Church.

Before World War II, the respected musician Bruno Walter was the conductor of the famous Vienna Symphony Orchestra. This symphony was a unique musical organization with a spirit and unity and synergism that produced glorious music, powerful and unmatched by any other symphony.

When the Nazis took over Austria, the conductor fled to America. It was not until 1947 that he was finally able to return to Austria. Upon his return, his first priority was to visit his treasured Vienna Symphony.

As he approached the concert hall where they were rehearsing, he could hear the strains of their glorious music. Mr. Walter said that if he had been anywhere on the face of the earth and had heard that magnificent sound, he would have been able to identify it as coming only from his beloved Vienna Symphony. When he entered the concert hall, to his amazement, he discovered that although the exquisite musical quality was still there, not a single one of the musicians playing with the symphony then had played with it before the war, when he was its conductor. All of them were new, but the quality and powerful spirit of that remarkable orchestra remained unaltered.

I didn’t swear and wouldn’t go to the parties with the other kids in my school so I stood out—especially in a non-LDS community. I didn’t even associate with them, so the guys in the school turned it into a big game. They would hang pornography on the walls by my locker, sing dirty songs in front of me, and call me Little Moses. That was the name they gave me.
At football practice, I remember guys jumping on top of me and crushing me at the bottom. It was a dog pile and they’d do it every day. There I’d be trying to play football and instead end up fighting these guys in practice.
What I discovered through all of this was the harder it was for me, the closer I grew to the Lord and the stronger my testimony became. I’m thankful I was truly strengthened at a time when I could have wallowed in self-pity and gone in the other direction.

In another instance, a Laurel class president determined that she was going to fulfill her responsibility to activate a girl even though her leaders felt the situation was almost hopeless. Her bishop told her that because of some problems in the home and for other reasons, there was very little chance this girl would ever come to church. The other class members laughed when they learned helping this girl come back to church was to be one of the goals of their class president.
Nevertheless, she was determined to become friends with this girl and asked for and got the help of a neighbor girl as well. They began by saying “Hi” whenever they saw her and always stopping to talk to her for a minute. Then they started finding reasons to visit her. She was selected to be a member of the Booster Club (an organization whose purpose is to boost the morale of the team) for her high school wrestling team. The Laurel class president took her a flower and a note expressing congratulations. This process went on for three or four months. Finally, one Sunday the girl accepted an invitation to come to Sunday School. The next week she was there again, and that week she also attended Mutual. Because of her courage and faith, a young Laurel influenced a girl of her own age to take the first step toward activity in the Church.

I lived most of my adult life in the San Francisco Bay area. The Oakland Temple is located high on a hill across the Bay from San Francisco. Even when fog rolls in, one can see the glow of the temple on the hill at night. I often heard the following story while living in that area. When there was an energy shortage in the mid 1970's in the United States, a request came from the government that all businesses and establishments turn off lights at night to conserve energy. The lights of Oakland Temple were turned off. After the first night of darkness, telephone calls started to come from the Armed Forces, all surrounding airports, port authorities and cities. All related the same problem. When ships and planes came in, they all used the temple lights to mark their position in order to land safely or to guide ships to the harbor. A petition was made: Could the temple lights be turned back on? A special permission was obtained, and the temple lights provided the steady light needed to guide all safely to their final destination around the Bay Area.

Not long after my ordination as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to serve as president of the quorum. Our adviser, Harold, was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, “Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?”
I responded with a warm, “Yes.”
Then he proffered, “How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?”
This time I answered, “Yes, Sir!” You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety, trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.
He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The following day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived home. He took me to his pigeon loft, which was in the upper area of a small barn located at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, “Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world.” I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen pigeon. I asked what made her so different. He responded, “Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye.” Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. “Take them home to your loft,” he counseled. “Keep them in for about 10 days, and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place.”
I followed Harold’s instructions. Upon his release, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold and asked, “Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?”
“Come on over,” he said, “and we’ll have a look.”
As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, “Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum.” This, of course, I already knew. Then he added, “What are you going to do to activate Bob, who is a member of your quorum?”
I answered, “I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week.”
Then he reached up to a special nest and handed me the one-eyed pigeon. “Keep her in a few more days and try again.” This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience: “Come on over, and we’ll see if she returned home.” Came the comment as we walked to the loft, “Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?”
“We’ll have him there next week,” I volunteered.
This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that indeed Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon, the only pigeon in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the president of the teachers quorum every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience and the skill to help me prepare for the responsibilities which lay ahead.