Gospel Story Finder

With the expansion of the Church in Europe, there are now countries where the Church has been for less than 15 years. I spoke with a mission president serving in his homeland of Russia who has been a member for only seven years. He told me, “The same month I was baptized I was called as a branch president.” Did he feel overwhelmed at times? Absolutely! Did he try to implement the full range of Church programs? Fortunately not! How did he grow so strong in such a small congregation in such a short time? He explained, “I knew with all my soul the Church was true. The doctrine of the gospel filled my mind and my heart. As we joined the Church, we felt part of a family. We felt warmth, trust, and love. We were only few, but we all tried to follow the Savior.”
They supported each other, they did the best they could, and they knew the Church was true. It was not the organization that had attracted him, but the light of the gospel, and this light strengthened those good members.

Despondent after her fiance broke their engagement, Abigail Morris found comfort in following President Ezra Taft Benson’s admonition to seriously study the Book of Mormon. As she read, she found that President Benson’s promises of finding “greater power” and “life in greater and greater abundance” came to pass.
“Regular scripture study also brought me many other blessings,” Abigail says. “My faith began to grow—not only in the gospel, but also in myself. I realized that God is a loving Heavenly Father who … has given us, his children, important roles to fulfill in his plan for our happiness.”

“Come on, Danny,” Jim called, “let’s practice diving.”
“I’m coming,” Danny replied, scowling as he read the notice beside the dressing room door at the swimming pool.
“How can a guy be in two places at the same time?” he grumbled.
Tryouts for the swim team were scheduled for two o’clock on Saturday—the same day and the same time he’d promised Mr. Duncan he would pitch in an exhibition baseball game for the boys and girls at the school for handicapped children. But when Danny had agreed to pitch for the game, he had forgotten that the team tryouts would be on the same day.
“Watch this,” Jim yelled as he dived into the pool.
Danny gave a whistle of admiration and thought, Jim will make the team for sure. I guess I’ll just have to tell Mr. Duncan I can’t pitch that game because I want to be in the tryouts.
“I hope we both make the team,” Jim said. “It means that we’d be invited to compete in the state swim meet and that we could swim in an Olympic-size pool.”
“Dreamer,” Danny chuckled. “OK, let’s practice diving. We’ve got to sharpen up before the tryouts.”
As he stood on the diving board the swinging doors leading to the pool opened and a boy he had never seen before came in with a woman helping him. His arms and hands were moving all the time and his head wobbled a little. He was having trouble walking, and his legs didn’t seem to go where he wanted them to. A lump caught in Danny’s throat as he thought, I’ll bet he’s from the handicap school.
“Let’s go in here, Richard,” the lady said. “The pool is shallow at this end.”
“OK,” Richard agreed.
Danny didn’t want to hear anymore. He quickly dived into the water and swam for the ladder. “Jim,” he said, climbing out, “I’m going to get out for a little while.”
“What’s the matter?” Jim asked, puzzled.
“I have a problem,” Danny replied. “I think I’ll go home. If you want to come along, I’ll tell you about it.”
Later, as they walked along, Danny explained his problem to Jim. Then he said, “I had made up my mind to tell Mr. Duncan I couldn’t pitch that game because I really want to try out for the swim team. But when I saw that boy who could hardly walk and might never have a chance to catch a ball. …” His voice trailed off. “Jim, what would you do if you were me?”
“Me?” Jim said. “I’d try out for the swim team. Danny, you can’t always be worrying about other people.”
“I guess not,” Danny agreed and went over to see Mr. Duncan.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” Mr. Duncan said. “I just received this letter from the youngsters at the handicap school. They’re really excited about our game.” He showed Danny the letter. “But we have a problem—we’re short of players and are going to have to find some substitutes.”
Danny read the letter, and then he felt worse than ever. Somehow he didn’t have the heart to tell Mr. Duncan now that he wouldn’t be able to pitch the exhibition game. He handed the letter back and said, “You’ll find somebody, I’m sure.”
“How about your friends, Danny? Would they help out?”
Danny shook his head. “I don’t think they can. The game is scheduled at the same time as the swim team tryouts. Most of my friends will be there.”
“I see,” Mr. Duncan said. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep on looking.” Then the older man put his arm around Danny and added, “We’re counting on you though, Danny. I’ll stop to pick you up on Saturday.”
Danny’s hope collapsed. “All right,” he answered and left. Now he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t think that the swim coach would change the tryout time till later just for one boy.
All the rest of the week Danny and Jim practiced swimming and diving. They worked hard, laughed, and had fun, but best of all they improved their form and strokes and were sure they could make the team. However, Danny’s promise to Mr. Duncan to play in the game Saturday kept crowding into his mind. He knew he would soon have to decide what he was going to do.
“Who did Mr. Duncan get for substitutes?” Jim asked, bobbing to the surface of the water.
“I don’t know,” Danny said. “I wish I did.”
He had a heavy, uneasy feeling on Saturday while putting on his swim trunks. He sat down on his bed, his thoughts completely mixed up. Then he thought of something that was at least worth a try, and he pulled his baseball suit on over his swim trunks.
Right on the dot, Mr. Duncan arrived in his station wagon. The same boy Danny had seen at the pool was with Mr. Duncan. Danny gulped. “Hi, Richard,” he said, and the boy’s face brightened as he returned the greeting.
Mr. Duncan nodded at Danny and then said disappointedly, “We had to call off the game because we couldn’t find enough substitutes.”
Danny looked at Richard and thought about the other boys and girls at the school who had counted on seeing a baseball game. He knew he couldn’t disappoint them. The idea that had come to him was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.
“Mr. Duncan,” Danny said, “would you mind driving over to my school for a minute? Maybe we can have that ball game after all.”
Danny caught the swim coach, Mr. Webb, in the hall and asked if the tryouts could be held later in the afternoon so that the boys could play baseball for the handicapped children.
“I wish you’d talked to me about this earlier,” Mr. Webb told Danny. “Some of the boys are already in the pool. However, I’ll see what I can do. It sounds like a great idea to do something for those boys and girls. They have a rough time and the least we can do is arrange for a baseball game if they’ve been counting on it.”
Pushing through the double doors that led to the swimming pool, Mr. Webb blew his whistle and when the boys gathered around, he explained to them why Danny was in his baseball uniform instead of in his swim trunks.
“If any of you would be willing to go over to the school and play a quick exhibition baseball game, I’d be willing to postpone the tryouts for a couple of hours,” the coach promised.
The boys looked at each other. No one spoke for a few moments. Then Jim said, “Well, I think Danny has a great idea. Sometimes it’s good to worry about other people. I’m willing.”
“Me, too,” the other boys agreed.
“Thanks, guys,” Danny said. He smiled at Jim, who gave him an understanding wink in return, and then Danny hurried out to tell Mr. Duncan and Richard the good news.

by Marco Holbrook
Everything was ready. Balloons and bunting were up; booths for the fair waited for the crowd. We, the 65 Mia Maids, Laurels, teachers, and priests from the Torrance California North Stake, focused our attention on the parking lot where our special guests would soon be arriving. It was almost noon.
Earlier, before breakfast at the stake center, each of us had signed our name next to a number on a list. The number represented one of the guests who would be coming. Following the meal, Mrs. Dori Livingston of the Southwest Association for the Mentally Retarded briefed us on what to expect. She showed a film of last year’s regional Special Olympics. She explained how these children, each a victim of a developmental disability, responded to the challenge of competing with others with similar handicaps.
The film was full of happy faces of kids of all ages. Some had noticeable problems, but most of them looked perfectly normal. It was their smiles, however, that caught our attention. There was something very special about those winning smiles as contestants crossed finish lines.
Mrs. Livingston explained some possible problems we might have to deal with and told us what to do in a matter-of-fact way. I’m sure some of us looked a little worried. She also explained that the parents of the children who were coming might be a little nervous, too, and therefore overprotective—after all, none of us had ever done this before, and they certainly didn’t want their children put in an unhappy situation. Somehow that reassured us, because our parents wouldn’t want that to happen to us, either.
We were bused to El Nido Park in Redondo Beach and spent the morning putting up booths, blowing up helium balloons, and tacking up signs. Now we sat wondering if we really could handle the service project we’d taken on for the afternoon.
As the first carloads started to arrive, it was quiet at the check-in stand. Each guest was paired up with a guide for the day. The guests, for the most part, were less shy than the guides. Hot dogs, punch, potato chips, and cupcakes quickly bridged the communication gap, and soon new friends were piling trash in barrels and heading for the games, including a fishing booth, a ring toss, pie-eating contests, and make-up artists painting clown faces on anyone who asked. At the ball toss, everyone won a prize. And everyone got a kick out of winning, though the prizes were nothing special. The smiles, those same winning smiles, radiated on the faces of our guests. After everyone had done everything at least three times, there was a ball game on the south diamond and a game of tag nearby. Even the parents relaxed and got acquainted with each other as they watched their children mingle. By 3:00 everyone was tired and ready to go home.

Several years ago Sister Ellis and I were called to preside over the Brazil São Paulo North Mission. The call meant that we would be away for three years. Given our family and business situation, we were impressed to keep our home and business in Houston rather than sell them.
As we began to make the necessary arrangements, it became clear we would need to have our lawyer prepare a power of attorney. That is a legal document that gives someone else the authority to do anything in our name. The person with this document could sell our home or other assets, borrow money in our name, spend our money, or even sell our business. The thought of giving someone that much power and authority over our affairs was scary.
We decided to give our power of attorney to a person we trusted, a good friend and partner, who exercised that power and authority very well. He did what we would have done if we were there.
Brethren, think of what the Lord has given us—His power and authority! The power and authority to act for Him in all things pertaining to His work!
With this priesthood power and, when necessary, the authorization of those with appropriate keys, we can perform the ordinances of salvation in His name: baptize for the remission of sins, confirm and confer the Holy Ghost, confer the priesthood and ordain others to priesthood offices, and perform temple ordinances. In His name we can administer His Church. In His name we can bless, home teach, and even heal the sick.
What a trust the Lord has placed in us! Think of it, brethren. He trusts us!
Before we received the priesthood, we had already been prepared and proven. We had exercised faith in Jesus Christ, repented, been baptized, and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. The level of experience we brought to our ordination varied. But the divine procedure was the same. We had been prayed about and interviewed by those exercising priesthood keys. We had been sustained by a vote of the Church members of our unit. We were ordained by one with authority and authorization to do so.
The Lord is careful with His priesthood. To exercise His power and authority is a sacred trust.
How wonderful that we have earned the trust of God! He trusts you! He trusts me!
When we receive the priesthood, we do so by covenant. A covenant is a mutual promise. He promises to bless us on certain conditions. We promise to fulfill those conditions. As we do so, the Lord always keeps His word and gives us the blessing. Usually He gives us more than agreed. He is very generous.
When we receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, we receive what is called “the oath and covenant” of the priesthood. We promise the Lord two things, and He promises us two things. We promise to be “faithful unto the obtaining these two priesthoods” and faithful in “magnifying [our] calling.” He promises that we will be “sanctified by the Spirit.” Then after we are faithful in all things to the end, He promises that “all that my Father hath shall be given [us]” (see D&C 84:33–41).
The Lord blesses His children through our priesthood service. To help us be successful in faithfully rendering priesthood service, He gives us directions and warnings. He has done that in the scriptures and continues to guide us through our leaders and through the promptings of the Holy Ghost.
The scriptures contain many passages of direction and warning to holders of the priesthood. One of the best is section 121 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In those few verses the Lord teaches us that the priesthood can only be exercised in righteousness. We should treat others with persuasion, patience, and kindness. He reminds us of the importance of charity and virtue in having the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost.
That section also warns us of those attitudes and actions that will cause us to lose our priesthood power. If we “aspire to the honors of men,” attempt to “cover our sins,” try to “gratify our pride” or “vain ambition,” or seek to “exercise control” over others, we lose the priesthood power (see vv. 35–37). From that point we would be practicing priestcraft. We would have left the service of God and would be putting ourselves in the service of Satan.
It would be good for priesthood holders to restudy Doctrine and Covenants section 121 regularly. It is easy to understand why our modern prophets have emphasized the need for us to maintain our worthiness and have given us For the Strength of Youth as a guide to help us.
One reason we must maintain our worthiness is that we never know when we will be called upon to use the priesthood.
When our son Matthew was five, he fell from the top of the high diving board at our neighborhood pool. He hit the concrete deck and suffered a fractured skull and a brain concussion. He was rushed by a Life Flight helicopter to the Houston Medical Center for emergency treatment. I needed priesthood assistance immediately. Our home teacher and our priesthood leader were both worthy and prepared at that moment. They helped give Matthew a blessing, and he completely recovered.
We must be ready at any time. As we say in Scouting, “Be prepared.”
Surely we want to avoid priestcraft. But the Apostle Paul warned us of another danger. He warned that in our day there will be those “having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof” (2 Timothy 3:5).
How can we as priesthood holders have a form of godliness but deny the power thereof? Could it be that we hold the priesthood but do not exercise it? visit our families rather than home teach them? pray for someone in an ordinance or ordination instead of blessing them? do the Lord’s work the best way we know how without first pleading to know and do His will in His way?
Remember the Lord’s counsel to us through Nephi that we “must not perform any thing unto the Lord save in the first place [we] shall pray” (2 Nephi 32:9).
Years ago I was called to serve as a counselor in the Houston Texas North Stake presidency. I was studying the parable of the talents. You remember the story. A man needed to go away, so he entrusted his servants with his goods. One received five talents, another two, and the last received one. Upon his return, he asked for an accounting.
The servant who received five and returned ten, as well as the one who took two and returned four, were declared good and faithful servants. But what caught my attention was the servant who received one, took care of it, and returned it safely back to his lord. I was surprised by the response of the master: “Thou wicked and slothful servant, … take therefore the talent from him, … and cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness”! (See Matthew 25:14–30.)
This seemed to be a harsh reaction to one who seemed to be trying to take care of what he was given. But the Spirit taught me this truth—the Lord expects a difference! I knew in that moment that each of us will one day stand before God and give an accounting of our priesthood service and stewardships. Did we make a difference? In my case, was the Houston Texas North Stake better when I was released than when I was called?
Thankfully, the Lord teaches us how to be fruitful, how to make a difference. “He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit” (John 15:5). If we exercise His priesthood in His way, following the direction that we receive from His servants and His Spirit, we will be good and faithful servants!
My dear brethren of the priesthood, the Lord Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer, lives! He knows us; He loves us. He placed His trust in us by giving us His priesthood power and authority. I am a witness of this truth. May we use His power and authority to do His will in His way is my prayer.
As we hear from President Hinckley, President Monson, and President Faust, I bear my personal witness that each is a prophet, seer, and revelator. I am anxious to hear their counsel. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“Wow, what an army!” David looked excited as he knelt next to the small trenches and plastic men Brady was playing with.
“Yeah,” Brady said, grinning proudly. “I’ve been digging these trenches for an hour. I wondered where you were.”
“You should’ve called. I was helping Mom sort some books for her bookstore. She got an order in yesterday.”
“Oh, you are always reading a book!” Brady knew that David didn’t mind his teasing. David was the best reader in the third grade and he was proud of it.
David started digging in the warm dirt with his hands, and soon he was busy building trenches too. Books were forgotten as the boys worked in silence for several minutes. The only sound was Brady’s loud sneeze when he stirred up too much dust.
“What’s your general’s name?” David asked, pushing a lock of hair back with a grimy hand. “I think I’ll call mine General Lee.”
“Mine’s General Moroni,” Brady said without looking up. He moved a plastic man in uniform into position at the front of the battle line.
“Moroni? What kind of name is that? Lee was a famous general. I’ve read a lot of history books, and I know a lot of real generals’ names. There’s Alexander the Great and Napoleon and–”
“I like Moroni.” Brady looked up then. He looked quickly at David and the trench he was digging, then went back to his own work. “Moroni was the best.”
“You mean there was really a general named Moroni? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Yes, there was. He once fought the Lamanites, or Indians, but only when he had to. He liked to live in peace.”
“He fought against Indians? Was he a cowboy?” David had read a lot of cowboy stories too.
“No, he was a Nephite.” Brady smiled and proudly held up the plastic man. “He was strong and brave, and he made his own flag and everything.”
“Who told you about him?” David was curious now. He didn’t know anything about Nephites or a general named Moroni.
“My Primary teacher. Dad and Mom told me a lot more about him, too.” Brady had asked David to come to Primary when his friend first moved in several months ago, but David had said no. He liked to read on Sunday.
“They tell you stories like that in Primary? I thought it was just prayers and bible stuff.”
“Oh, sure, we have those things. But we also have the Book of Mormon, and it has a lot of good stories in it.” Brady could see that David was interested. He had put down his men, and his hands were still. “Do you want to come to Primary with me next Sunday?”
“No.” David bent his head and started digging extra fast. He wasn’t going to let Brady trick him into going to church. Nobody mentioned Moroni again while they played.
On Saturday Brady and David went exploring at the old park. They kicked a soccer ball around for a while, played hide-and-seek in the overgrown bushes, and climbed up on the old rock wall at the east corner of the park.
“Hey, look!” Brady shouted. He spread his arms wide and lowered his voice dramatically: “Behold, I am Samuel the Lamanite. …”
David asked, “Who are you talking about now?”
“Samuel the Lamanite. He once preached from a high wall that surrounded the city because the Nephites had chased him out of the city.”
“Why did they chase him away? I thought Moroni was a Nephite and that the Nephites were the good guys.” David scratched his head and lay back on his elbows. He squinted his eyes half-shut and watched Brady standing on the wall.
“Yes, Moroni was a Nephite when the Nephites were righteous. But Samuel was preaching to a group of Nephites who were wicked. He told them to repent and quit doing wrong. So they chased him from their city. That’s when he climbed up on the wall and preached from there. The Nephites shot arrows and threw rocks at him, but they couldn’t hit him. Good, huh?”
David didn’t answer for a minute. He picked up the soccer ball and passed it from one hand to another. “Another Primary story, right?”
“Yes. I think Samuel was great, and he didn’t give up easily.”
Brady didn’t ask David again to go to Primary with him. They played soccer until the sun got too hot, then rode their bicycles back to Brady’s for a drink of lemonade. Mom even let them put up a tent in the backyard.
Three weeks later was David’s birthday. He got a new fishing pole from his dad, a baseball mitt from his older brother, and a book about trains from his mom. Brady gave him some building blocks that snapped together, just like the set Brady had received last Christmas. Brady knew that David would like them. The next day they played for hours with the blocks, making trucks and buildings and even a huge tower.
When David had finished his tower, he ran to his closet for a plastic man. He put him on top of the tower and grinned mysteriously at Brady. “Do you know who that is?”
“Who?” asked Brady. He wasn’t paying much attention to David, because he was busy linking his ship together with some yellow blocks.
“King Benjamin.” David paused to wait for Brady to listen. “I built a tower for King Benjamin.”
Brady looked at the tower. It was sturdy, tall, and magnificent. “Wow!” Brady whistled through his teeth. “Nice job!” Then a puzzled expression replaced Brady’s smile. “But how did you know about King Benjamin?”
David smiled a smile that covered his whole face. “Mom got me a copy of your Book of Mormon. We’ve been reading it together. I really like the story of King Benjamin.”
Brady left his ship and went over to study the tower. “Wow! A tower for King Benjamin.”
“You know,” David said, “I like Moroni too. The missionaries told us about him. I can see why you used him to lead your army. I can’t wait till we get to that part in our reading. He was the best.”
Brady agreed. He didn’t have to ask David if he wanted to come to Primary on Sunday. He knew he would come.

Then my husband was called to be a mission president in an unsettled, chaotic country in the developing world. It was 10,000 miles from home and light-years away from the culture and communication I knew. But, in the instant of my call as a full-time missionary, I felt a little like Alma and the sons of Mosiah—that I was called to be an “[instrument] in the hands of God to bring about this great work.” I also felt something I am not sure they did—overwhelming fear!
Over subsequent days I pulled out my patriarchal blessing and read it again and again, searching for deeper understanding. Even knowing I was going to live out a promise I had received from a patriarch decades earlier did not alleviate my concerns. Could I leave my married and unmarried children and my aging father and mother-in-law behind? Would I know the right things to do and say? What would my husband and I eat? Would I be safe in a country that was politically unstable and dangerous? I felt inadequate on every level.
In my quest for peace, I redoubled my efforts to attend the temple. I pondered the meaning of my covenants in a way I had never done before. For me, at this defining crossroads in my life, my temple covenants served as a foundation and catalyst. Yes, I feared, but I realized I had chosen to make personal, binding, sacred commitments I meant to keep. When all was said and done, this wasn’t someone else’s service to perform. This was my mission call, and I determined to serve.
Joseph Smith’s father pronounced this blessing upon his son’s head: “The Lord thy God has called thee by name out of the heavens. Thou hast been called … to the great work of the Lord: to do a work in this generation which no other … would do as thyself, in all things according to the will of the Lord.” The Prophet Joseph was called to his unique part of “the great work of the Lord,” and as overwhelmed and unprepared as I felt, I knew I was called to my portion of the work, too. This insight was helpful and gave me courage.

10. Once when traveling with Elder and Sister Russell M. Nelson, we left our hotel in Bombay, India, to catch a plane for Karachi, Pakistan, and then on to Islamabad. When we got to the chaotic airport, our flight had been canceled. Impatiently, I said to the man at the airline counter, “What do you expect us to do, just give up and go back to the hotel?” He said with great dignity, “Sir, you never go back to the hotel.” We rummaged about the airport, found a flight, kept the appointment in Islamabad, and even had a night’s sleep. Sometimes life is like that: we are left to press forward and endure frustrated expectations—refusing to “go back to the hotel”! Otherwise, such “give-up-itis” will affect all seasons of life. Besides, the Lord knows how many miles we have to go “before [we] sleep”! (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”).

Bacalar is a small, ancient town in the state of Quintana Roo, Mexico. It has about seven thousand inhabitants, and you can walk from one end of town to the other in only forty-five minutes.
Most of the homes are wooden huts with palm-tree leaves or aluminum sheets for a roof. The town sits on the edge of a beautiful lagoon that flows into a bay on the Caribbean near the bordering country of Belize, Central America.
In October 1982, the Bacalar Branch was organized, with just four members—my father, my mother, my sister, and me. I was sixteen years old at the time. A week later in family home evening, my father asked us a question: “What can we do so our branch will grow?”
For a while, we were all silent, thinking of an answer. Then my mother enthusiastically said, “Christmas is near. Why don’t we have a party for all the children in town? Many of them have never been to a party, and it would be a good experience for all of them. Surely many hearts will open to receive the gospel.”
We all thought this was an excellent idea, and my father began making assignments. Mother would make rag dolls for the girls; my sister would make piñatas and fill them with candy; my father would invite the state’s symphonic band to play Christmas carols during the party; and I would make airplanes out of vines for all the boys. We decided we would need 150 dolls and 150 airplanes. Joyfully we accepted our responsibilities, not realizing what sacrifices we would have to make in order for our party to become a reality. We realized this little by little.
In a later home evening, my father told our family that we wouldn’t be able to have Christmas gifts or a special Christmas dinner, as we usually did. I didn’t like that idea very much.
Then one afternoon when I returned home from school, I noticed that a bedsheet and some curtains were missing. A few days later, I couldn’t find some of my clothes. The same things were happening to my sister. When we investigated, we discovered that our mother was making rag dolls from the missing sheets, curtains, and clothing. I didn’t like that, and I almost argued with my mother about it.
As Christmas grew near, I had to sacrifice more and more of my time, money, and efforts in order to make the airplanes. My mother’s back started to hurt because she was spending so much time sewing the dolls by hand, and I finally had to sew on the dolls’ button eyes. I didn’t like that, either.
At last it was the day before the party. My father told me to put on a white shirt and tie so we could go to all the homes to invite the children.
On the day of the party, the children began arriving early—some came with their parents, and others came alone. In the afternoon, many more children arrived. The state’s symphonic band came and played Christmas hymns. I told Christmas stories. Next the children broke the piñatas, and each received some candy. Finally, two big lines formed—one for girls and one for boys—and my sister and I gave away the toys we had made.
I can’t describe the happy faces of those little children. But just one of those happy faces would have made all of our sacrifices worth it. Anger and envy disappeared from my heart and were transformed into tears of gratitude and joy. As each child took his gift, I received one of the most precious gifts of my life—the joy of serving others.
After our party, the missionaries arrived in Bacalar. Within two months, our branch had grown from four members to twenty-five. Six months later, there were forty-five members. Today, eleven years later, the Bacalar Branch is a ward with a beautiful meetinghouse.
Mother had been right. Because of the spirit of that first Christmas, many hearts—including our own—did open to receive the blessings of the gospel.

When a construction accident left him unable to walk, Rodrigo Quintanilla could no longer work as a welder—or do a lot of other things. But he decided to move forward with faith, trusting in Heavenly Father’s plan for him and his family.
When something really bad happens to us, we can respond in one of two ways. We can get angry with God and leave the Church, having nothing more to do with it. Or we can get on our knees, pray, and continue to grow.
I didn’t lose my faith, nor did I ask myself, “Why did this happen to me?” I refused to go down that road.
When a trial comes to us, I know our Father in Heaven provides a way through that trial. As I recuperated, having the company of the Holy Ghost was essential. I had to reinvent myself professionally, so I prayed for the Spirit’s guidance. God answered me.
I spent the first year after my accident in recovery and rehabilitation. I spent the second year determining what to do. I needed to find something that would at least cover my family’s basic needs—something that didn’t take a lot of strength and that I could do from a wheelchair.
With help from my wife, Paola, and my children, Ricardo and Nicol, I began an in-home business. We started by offering a key-copying service. We slowly added more services. I gathered know-how here and there. I learned with practice. Now, nine years later, we run a locksmith shop and a copy center with printing and laminating services.
“I had to reinvent myself professionally, so I prayed for the Spirit’s guidance,” says Rodrigo. “God answered me.”
With guidance from the Holy Ghost and help from his family, Rodrigo began a successful in-home business.

Last year while visiting family in Wisconsin, my cousin and I went on a youth temple trip to the Nauvoo Illinois Temple and performed baptisms for the dead. We had a bunch of family names that we took to the temple. My grandma told us about one of our deceased ancestors. Grandma had a close relationship with her. I got to be baptized for this family member and other ancestors, and it was a really cool experience, because I could feel their presence and know they will have a chance to accept the work done for them. When I go to the temple, I know I’m doing a great thing.

My neighbor came across the street and said, “Hey, guess what we’re doing for youth conference? We get to build two barns.”
I grunted. “Two barns? Thrill city. Whoever came up with that dumb idea? Youth conferences are supposed to be fun.”
“We’ll have fun working.”
“Get real,” I told him. “I have a hard time cleaning my room.”
Maybe the adults thought I was Laman or Lemuel at the next stake dance committee meeting. I asked them, “Whatever happened to white river rafting for youth conference? Do you really expect us to get up at 5:00 A.M. on the first three days of our summer vacation?” One of the girls on the committee decided she wouldn’t go as she’d wreck her fingernails. She threatened to organize something for her own ward. None of our complaining did any good. The stake youth leaders stuck to their plan.
A fierce hailstorm pelted Duvall, Washington, the night before the conference. “Bummer, now they’ll have to cancel our exciting barn building extravaganza,” I said sarcastically.
Miraculously, the weather cleared, and I found myself standing with 180 kids in carpenter aprons, pockets full of nails and wearing a T-shirt that read, “You Love Who You Serve.”
We were given the choice of helping to build a barn/shed or a barn/house. I picked the barn/shed. It sounded easier. We banged nails. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t awful. Ward Roney, the to-be-owner of the barn/shed was a sturdy man, weathered by long hours on the tractor. He told me his favorite sound was the belch a cow makes when she’s in a warm shed eating hay. His old shed blew down in a bad storm, and the insurance wouldn’t pay to replace it. He was either brave or foolish to let a bunch of teenagers build his shed. Surely he realized we’d never finish the huge thing. If we could do it, one observer noted, it’d be an Amish barn raising by Mormons for Catholics.
Brother Beecham, the builder in charge of our shed, held the American Homes world record for the fastest home framed. The old record stood at 36 hours, and Beecham’s crew accomplished it in four. I got a kick out of watching him stroll across thin high timbers like they were sidewalks. With the construction boom in Seattle, I knew Brother Beecham was passing up a lot of money to teach us.
Normally, when I work I look at my watch every five minutes. Before I knew it, the walls were up, and we were ready for a crane to position the giant trusses of the roof. But there was no crane. Instead of machine power, we’d use muscle power, and some of the muscles were mine. The ground crew strained to position one truss. Then three of us on the roof pulled up the point with a rope as the ground crew hoisted. We cheered when the truss was securely nailed into place. What a team. Up there, 30 feet off the ground, a great sense of brotherhood developed between the “roof crew.” It was great up there. It was fun. I really developed a closeness to all of them as we worked and sweat and hammered our thumbs hour after hour.
The first day some of the girls were afraid to hit the nails on the head. By the second day they were mean. They’d developed aim and aggression in their hammering. Unfortunately, the girls used their new skills on the boys at the pie eating contest, which turned into a pie throwing war.
Meanwhile the people at the barn/house site made decent progress on the first floor. They were laboring for an LDS family of eight who’d used their savings to drill a well that turned out to be dry. The Dazey family was packed into a small trailer. They’d obtained a small, portable sawmill and cut logs into lumber. Building their barn/house was a dream come true. One of my friends who worked on the site said, “We were digging a ditch for the septic system. After a few hours, it got to where I started taking pride in the ditch and I thought the straight sides were kind of pretty. I’ve never felt that way about a ditch before.”

We left Ha?apai to go by boat to a small island where few General Authorities have ever visited. We were greeted at the dock by the Saints. They embraced us and tears flowed freely down their cheeks. We walked from the docks to a chapel. As we neared the building, which is used both for a school and a church, we heard the voices of children singing in their native tongue, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet, to guide us in these latter days.” (Hymns, no. 196.) We walked in to the chapel humbled. There, filling the chapel to capacity, were members of the Church and friends alike gathered from around the island to hear the messages that were to be given.
There was a rich outpouring of the Spirit, and at the conclusion of the meeting we were invited to the rear of the building where a special ceremony of welcome was given to us. It was a beautiful service. A representative of the government was there, and he spoke and thanked the Church and General Authorities for the tremendous contributions they had made in educating, strengthening, and building the lives of the people. He was not a member of the Church, but he was touched by the Spirit of the Lord. In their greatest tribute, they gave us a huge roasted pig. They said they would like to lavish us with gifts, but this was the best they had.
They took us to a feast, a table spread with the finest that the island could produce. After the feast they picked up the pig, carried it to the ship, and insisted that we take it with us on our journey. We started walking back to the ship. I was walking with the island official and I said, “You would make a wonderful member of the Church.” He said, “I am ready. I felt the Spirit, but just must get rid of a habit.” I reminded him that it was just as easy to get rid of the habit today as it would be tomorrow or next week. And he said, “I’ll try; I’ll try.”

Since being in the Dominican Republic, we have had several experiences where members and friends of the Church have approached us and told us they were, or had friends who were, members. One Saturday, we walked into a jewelry shop that sold locally crafted jewelry. When the lady behind the counter saw our badges, she immediately said she had family who were active members of the Church. We had a wonderful exchange with her as we made a few modest purchases. nullA few weeks later, while at a mango festival in Bani, Dominican Republic, a young member, about missionary age, saw our badges and came up to greet us and welcome us to his city. We talked about missions with him and felt his warm and welcoming spirit. We could easily see him serving the Lord wearing his own missionary badge. We continue to be blessed by the people we meet because of the badges we wear and who we represent. The power of the badge continues to touch hearts as missionaries throughout the world strive to declare through word and deed “that there is no other way or means whereby man be saved, only in and through [Jesus] Christ” (Alma 38:9).

However, one weekend during my service as a stake president, we experienced perhaps the worst trial parents can face. Our family returned from a Church activity and gathered for lunch. Then our three boys went out within our compound to play.
My wife felt repeated impressions that something might be wrong. She asked me to check on the children while we were washing the dishes. I felt they were safe since we could hear their voices of excitement from their play.
When we both finally went to check on our sons, to our dismay we found little 18-month-old Kenneth helpless in a bucket of water, unseen by his brothers. We rushed him to the hospital, but all attempts to revive him proved futile.
We were devastated that we would not have the opportunity to raise our precious child during this mortal life. Though we knew Kenneth would be part of our family eternally, I found myself questioning why God would let this tragedy happen to me when I was doing all I could to magnify my calling. I had just come home from fulfilling one of my duties in ministering to the Saints. Why couldn’t God look upon my service and save our son and our family from this tragedy? The more I thought about it, the more bitter I became.
My wife never blamed me for not responding to her promptings, but I learned a life-changing lesson and made two rules, never to be broken:
Rule 1: Listen to and heed the promptings of your wife.
Rule 2: If you are not sure for any reason, refer to rule number 1.
Though the experience was shattering and we continue to grieve, our overwhelming burden was eventually eased. My wife and I learned specific lessons from our loss. We came to feel united and bound by our temple covenants; we know we can claim Kenneth as ours in the next world because he was born in the covenant. We also gained experience necessary to minister to others and empathize with their pain. I testify that our bitterness has since dispersed as we exercised faith in the Lord. Our experience continues to be hard, but we have learned with the Apostle Paul that we “can do all things through Christ which [strengthens us]” if we focus on Him.

Grandma squeezed Celie’s shoulder. “When I was a little girl my grandma taught me how to make tarts. They’re like miniature pies. While my grandma was busy peeling apples, I stuffed the tiny tart tins full of dough. I filled them so high there wasn’t room for the apple filling.”
“Did she get mad?” Celie asked.
“No, she showed me how to fix the tarts and rolled the leftovers into a ball. I got to play with it. She even let me sneak a taste of the dough.”

Kenny slouched on the sofa with his head down. He was folding and refolding a paper in his hands. When the door opened, he didn’t look up. He knew it was his mother. She had just finished burying his fish, Mike.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked as she hung up her coat.
“Nothing—just making a paper airplane.”
Mom went over to Kenny. She ran her fingers through his soft brown hair. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?” she asked.
How can Mom understand how I feel? Kenny thought. Mike was just a plain old fish that his friend Mike had given him when he had moved. That’s why Kenny had named the fish Mike.
Mom patted Kenny’s head and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll have dinner ready in a minute,” she said.
Kenny watched his mother with his eyes half raised, not caring what she fixed for dinner. He felt sick and laid his head on the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.
“Ready for dinner?” Mom called later. “We’re having tacos.”
“I’m not hungry,” Kenny answered, keeping his eyes closed. He opened his eyes when he felt his mother sit down beside him.
“I miss Mike, too,” Mom said softly. “I enjoyed watching him swim through his bridge and hide in the shell.”
“He was a good fish,” said Kenny as he sat up. “He helped me remember Mike and all the fun we had. Why did he have to die, Mom?”
She paused for a moment, looking perplexed. “I don’t know, Kenny,” she finally answered. “All living things have to die. Maybe it was Mike’s time to die.”
“Will I die?” Kenny asked, looking up at his mother.
“Yes, Kenny,” she said, “someday you’ll die too. But only our bodies die. Our spirits live forever. Do you remember what we talked about in family home evening just after Grandma died?”
“Yeah, Dad told us that Jesus died and His body was buried. But Mary went to the place where He was buried and saw Him. He wasn’t dead any more!”
“That’s right, Kenny. And because of Him, we will all live again. If we’re good, we’ll go back to Heavenly Father, and we’ll be happy.”
“Is Mike happy?” asked Kenny.
“Yes, Kenny, I think he is,” said Mom. “Heavenly Father created Mike too. I’m sure there’s a place prepared just for him.”
“Will I see Mike again?” Kenny asked, sitting up straight. His eyes shone with excitement. “Just like you said I would see Grandma again someday?”
Mom took hold of Kenny’s hands and said, “Kenny, I can’t answer that. But Heavenly Father knows how much you love Mike. Everything will turn out for your good.”
“Do you promise?” asked Kenny.
“Even better than that, Son,” Mom replied, “Jesus promises.”
Kenny thought for a minute. He picked up his airplane and turned it slowly in his hands. “You know, Mom,” Kenny said, looking up with a smile, “I think Mike would want to know about his namesake. Will you help me write him a letter? But let’s eat first. I’m hungry!”

Mackenzie felt miserable. Her best friend, Bekah, had moved all the way to Texas with her family. Mackenzie tried to have fun without Bekah, but it just wasn’t the same. Playing by herself just wasn’t fun. Mackenzie missed having someone to giggle with and play superheroes and princesses together. She missed Bekah.
Without Bekah, Mackenzie had no one to show her drawings to or sit with in Primary. She liked the other kids in her class, but none of them were her best friend.
One night Mackenzie lay in her bed, hugging her favorite stuffed animal, Bunny. She counted all the days Bekah had been gone. “I’m lonely,” she told Bunny. “What am I going to do?” Tears filled her eyes.
Bunny didn’t have any answers for her. But Mackenzie knew someone who did.
She knelt down beside her bed. Then she folded her arms and bowed her head. “Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “please help me find a new best friend so I won’t be lonely. Please help me be brave enough to talk to people.”
A few weeks later, Mackenzie’s parents invited someone over for dinner. His name was Brother Bryce. He was new in the ward. During dinner, Brother Bryce turned to Mackenzie and said, “My family is still in Colorado while I look for a house here, but I have a daughter about your age. Would you like to talk to her on the phone?”
Mackenzie’s heart started pounding. What am I going to say? What if she thinks I’m boring? Then Mackenzie remembered her prayer. Heavenly Father can help me be brave.
“Sure,” Mackenzie said in a small voice.
Brother Bryce pulled out his phone and called his family. Then he handed the phone to Mackenzie. She bit her lip nervously.
“You can sit on the couch while you talk,” Dad suggested with a smile.
Mackenzie nodded and headed to the living room. She sat on the couch and hugged a pillow tightly. She took a deep breath and raised the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” Mackenzie asked.
A quiet voice answered, “Hi.”
Mackenzie took another deep breath. “My name’s Mackenzie. What’s yours?”
“Hannah,” the girl said after a short pause. “Do you like books?”
Mackenzie smiled. “I love books. Do you like superheroes?”
“Superheroes are my favorite!” Hannah’s voice sounded excited. “What about princesses?”
“Definitely!” Mackenzie said with a grin.
Before they knew it, Mackenzie and Hannah were talking about all kinds of things. They could have talked forever, but Brother Bryce had to leave. And his phone battery was about to die!
“I can’t wait for you to get here!” Mackenzie said.
“Me too!” Hannah said. “You’re really cool!”
That night, Mackenzie knelt beside her bed with a huge smile. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “for helping me find a brand-new friend.”
Mackenzie and Hannah have been best friends for 15 years. They grew up and went to college together. They’re still best friends today!

A few years ago I had the opportunity to preside at a regional conference in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As I enjoyed the sweet spirit which prevailed during the conference and the wonderful hospitality of the people, I reflected upon how the community’s spirit of compassionate help had been tested in the extreme on April 19, 1995. On that day a terrorist-planted bomb destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City, taking 168 persons to their deaths and injuring countless others.
Following the conference, I was driven to the entrance of a beautiful and symbolic memorial which graces the area where the Murrah building once stood. The day was dreary and rainy, which tended to underscore the pain and suffering that had occurred on this spot. The memorial features a 400-foot (122-m) reflecting pool. On one side of the pool are 168 empty glass and granite chairs, in honor of each of the people killed. These are placed, as far as can be determined, where the fallen bodies were found.
On the opposite side of the pool there stands, on a gentle rise of ground, a mature American elm tree—the only nearby tree to survive the destruction. It is appropriately and affectionately named “The Survivor Tree.” In regal splendor it honors those who survived the horrific blast.
My host directed my attention to the inscription above the gate of the memorial:
We come here to remember those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever.
May all who leave here know the impact of violence.
May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.
With tears in his eyes and with a faltering voice, my host declared, “This community and all the churches and citizens in it have been galvanized together. In our grief we have become strong. In our spirit we have become united.”
We concluded that the best word to describe what had taken place was compassion. My thoughts turned to the musical play Camelot, written by Alan Jay Lerner and based on a novel by T. H. White. King Arthur, in his dream of a better world where people would share an ideal relationship one with another, said, as he recalled the purpose of the Round Table, “Violence is not strength, and compassion is not weakness.”

A wedge of young people climbed the last hill looking upward to the first rays of the morning sun. For college students they seemed strangely quiet as they approached the little clearing. It was a time for spiritual rejuvenation and the culmination of the Utah State University student ward reunion, according to Don Thorpe, photographer. First the sacrament was passed to all present. Then the sweet feelings inside became vocal in the testimony meeting as someone said:

“I attended the Palmyra Pageant and a testimony meeting in the Sacred Grove; now I have the same feeling here as I did at that holy place.” Others voiced similar feelings. Tears came gently to the surface. “Somehow now I feel my life hasn’t been all that it should have been. … I want to do better.” Warming smiles were shared, and strangers became close friends in an instant. There was an aura of love all around; no one feared saying what was felt inside; understanding sank deep into full hearts.

Nearly all of the forty students present had stood on their feet to voice their love and dedication when the meeting finished almost two and a half hours later. Again there was a reverent stillness as the group filed down the hill. They were leaving this spot of sacred experience, but the moment would stay in their memories.