Gospel Story Finder

Sacrifice, though it tugs at our heartstrings and stretches us almost beyond what we think we can bear, does indeed bring forth the blessings of heaven. The following story from Africa illustrates this principle.
A Protestant minister named Baende Isukongola, with a strong congregation in Kinshasa, Zaire, began to have serious misgivings about the teachings of his church. As he searched the scriptures, Baende noted numerous teachings and practices which were missing from his church. He became concerned that his church did not practice tithing. He investigated the teachings and practices of other churches but found them also to be incomplete.
One day a friend mentioned to Baende that a group he knew only as “the Mormons” preached and practiced tithing. He enlisted the assistance of the U.S. Embassy in Kinshasa, which directed him to the Zaire Kinshasa Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
One day Baende arrived on the doorstep of the mission home, anxious to learn about our doctrine. Each week, armed with a long list of penetrating questions, he met with the missionaries. The Spirit bore testimony to Baende, and he was baptized. Later, his wife and two sons joined the Church.
One problem, however, had arisen. Knowing what he now knew, Baende could not remain as a Protestant minister and so resigned his position. In so doing he gave away a guaranteed income, a secure source of livelihood. He was glad to do so, realizing that he had found a pearl of great price, a splendid treasure. But it took great courage, in a country with unemployment rates of over 80 percent, to give up a job with no assurance at all that he’d ever work again. Then a miracle happened. Baende obtained a job, a permanent, secure job with the government. In the midst of all the unemployment in Zaire, he had again secured his temporal future. Two weeks later one of his sons also secured employment. The good brother recognized the hand of the Lord in his life and testified often of God’s goodness to him. He and his family remain faithful members of the Church.

Last October my family moved from Minnesota to my grandmother’s house in Utah. My father stayed in Minnesota to fix up the house before we sold it. Things weren’t going as quickly as we had hoped, so my mother traveled to Minnesota to help him. At 17 and the oldest, I was put in charge of my younger sister and three younger brothers until my parents got back. My grandmother was visiting my aunt, so it would be just us kids for a while.
I had been left in charge before, and it would be no big deal to take care of the children for a couple of weeks. It was summer, so I didn’t have to worry about school or homework, and my parents left the minivan so I could bus my siblings around. The first night, we ate a quick dinner, watched some TV, and I finally managed to get them into bed. I was very tired when I crawled into bed, but I couldn’t sleep.
I lay there for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what I was going to do the next day. I heard a creaking sound, but houses always creak at night. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed, but I wasn’t used to sleeping in this house. Not only that, but I was in charge of keeping my younger sister and brothers safe. After a few more creaks, I convinced myself that someone had opened the door and was walking around inside. I was wide awake now. I said a quick prayer and tried to dismiss the creaking sounds as regular house sounds.
After a few minutes I was on edge again. This time I sat up on my bed to bow my head and fold my arms. I prayed that my sister, brothers, and I would be safe while my parents were gone and that I would be able to feel peaceful that night. Afterward I was calmer, but I still couldn’t sleep.
I prayed again, and this time I received the impression that I should check the house. I got up and went to the door of my room and stopped. I could picture myself opening it and finding a burglar with a gun. I did not want to open the door but, remembering my impression, I went into the hall and turned on the light. I opened every door and checked every room. Then I checked the door locks. Everything was fine. I went back to bed and fell asleep.
Later I realized the reason for my prompting. I felt that Heavenly Father wanted me to know that He was keeping us safe. He wanted me to know that my prayer had been answered. I have a testimony that God will answer our prayers, even over little things like being scared at night. He will take care of us if we trust Him.

Years later, Sister Nadauld and I were called to preside over the Switzerland Geneva Mission—also a French-speaking area. Many of our missionaries had musical talents, and we soon saw that music training and learning a foreign language, especially one as lyrical as French, were complementary skills. We shared with them my experience of singing before teaching and invited them to learn simple hymn duets that they could sing before beginning their gospel lessons. They reported back that it had the same wonderful impact on teaching with the Spirit that Elder Robertson and I had experienced some 40 years earlier.

I had an experience when I was in the southern states that helped me to realize what I think the Lord meant. I received a letter from a good brother from down in Phoenix. He was quite an elderly man. He said that his grandfather was one of the first converts in the state of Mississippi back in 1840. He said, “Since that time my father and his descendants have given over 100 years worth of missionary service to the Church.” There were then 15 in the mission field, and we had three of them in our mission.
I told that story in a missionary meeting after I was appointed Presiding Bishop in 1940—just 100 years after the grandfather joined the Church. His grandson happened to be in that meeting and I didn’t know it. He came up to me after and said, “Brother Richards, it is now 165 years of service.” When you get to adding 10 or 15 years at a time, it doesn’t take long to add another 100 years.
This was my thought: If that missionary who waded through the swamps of Mississippi back in 1840, when they traveled without purse or scrip and many of them contracted malaria fever, had only brought that one man into the Church, he might not have thought that he had done much. But in 100 years there was 165 years of missionary service from that one man and his descendants, without counting all the converts he had made and all the converts they had made. How can you “lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal” (Matt. 6:20) in any better manner than by performing a service like that?

Sister Sharlene Aland of Sacramento, California, divides her time between a demanding job, church callings, and caring for a chronically ill sister. “I never seemed to find time to read Church magazines and do other things I wanted to do,” she recalls. Then her stake president challenged each member of the stake to hold family home evening every Monday. “I realized that even though I live alone, I need to provide for myself the same opportunities for spiritual growth that I would provide for a family.” Since then, Sister Aland has spent at least an hour every Monday night nurturing her spiritual growth. “I’ve held that time sacred. Sometimes I’ve read the Church magazines and Church books. Other times I’ve worked on food storage or watched Church videos. Doing this has given me the time I was always looking for.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
Our vacation was ending. Over waffles that morning, we planned how to make the most of our time at the hotel before enduring the five-hour drive home. My husband decided to take our three young daughters for a final escapade in the pool. I would take advantage of a treadmill in the workout room.
The treadmill I chose faced a wall-sized window overlooking the swimming pool. Shortly I saw a family, my family, make their way to the pool. Towels, shoes, and T-shirts flew everywhere as the girls excitedly prepared to jump into the water. Normally I would be following behind them, gathering up clothes and shoes and, quite honestly, being a bit annoyed by it all. Instead, I saw this family from the outside looking in, as though the giant window before me was a movie screen. As my feet pounded a rhythm on the rotating belt beneath, I watched.
I saw how happy everyone was, laughing and playing together, and I thought about the times I had become discouraged by the petty arguments that inevitably arise in a family, by the uneasy feeling that, despite my best effort, I was failing to teach my children to love each other. But as I watched, I saw people who were happy together. I discovered that I wasn’t failing to teach them to love one another; I was just failing to notice that they could.
I watched one of the girls jumping from the pool’s edge over and over again into her daddy’s arms. I thought about all the big jumps she would make throughout her life and hoped she would trust Heavenly Father to catch her each time. I knew that with each jump she was learning to trust and that being part of our family was a safe way to learn that trust.
Another daughter sought to perfect a swimming skill. I saw how her family’s encouragement kept her trying. There would be times in her life when she would need that same support in the face of more difficult challenges.
And then I watched as our third daughter was accidentally bumped into the pool. Upset and angry, she sputtered her way out of the water and into a chair. Immediately her family noticed she was missing. I watched each one lovingly encourage her to rejoin them. She eventually did, and I thought of her future, of all the times she would be hurt and feel like giving up. I hoped she would always find in the love of her family the strength to endure.
Suddenly, the realization hit me: our families can be a key to our ability to learn, understand, and live the gospel. Nephi noted that “by small means the Lord can bring about great things” (1 Nephi 16:29). And so it is with families. Yes, parents struggle. But every effort to teach and train and love, no matter how small, matters.
My little movie drew to a close. As I turned off the treadmill and watched my family gather their clothes, I felt renewed determination to keep going, to keep doing all the little things that I sometimes worry don’t make a difference.

David Houle, the Mountain View cross-country coach, encourages his team to visit a nursing home in American Fork, Utah. A group from the team goes every Sunday night.
Jason Blackham, an academic all-state cross-country runner who is now on a mission in the Brazil São Paulo East Mission, says Kathy, a 40-year-old woman with multiple sclerosis, was one of his favorite people to visit. “She was bright and clever; it was just her body that didn’t work,” he says. She died in the spring of 1992. “Quite a few of us attended the funeral.
“Service really humbles you,” says Jason. “It makes you thankful for what you have and for your healthy body.”

Since the consolidated meeting schedule has made more Sunday time available, we have devised a family game called “Mormon Bowl.” The goal is to answer as many questions as possible from sacrament meeting talks and songs. Its rules are simple:
1. Each family member writes a question and its answer on a slip of paper.
2. The questions are put into a bowl of your choice. (We used Grandma’s blue willow bowl.)
3. The most reverent family member at church gets to draw and ask the questions. (If you have a very small child, a reading adult helps.)
4. To keep score, one point is awarded for each question answered correctly. In case of duplicate questions, the youngest children get to answer.
It sounds simple; but try to remember what the name of the opening hymn was, or what special person was mentioned in the opening prayer. Perhaps a new officer or teacher was sustained: who was he, and what is his new position? The questions asked can also be doctrinal, based on information given in the sacrament meeting talks.
Within a few weeks after we began playing this game, our family’s reverence at sacrament meeting had improved dramatically. And it didn’t take long for new sensitivities to develop, along with a new kind of listening.
Improved reverence, knowledge, enjoyment, and spirituality have been rewards for our Sunday evenings. Indeed, we look forward each week to our “Mormon Bowl,” enjoying again the spirit of sacrament meeting.

It was 1935, and in the middle of the Great Depression. Many men were out of work, so we were lucky that Dad had a job that summer as a miner in the Oro Del Rey Mine. All of us children got to live in a tent in Goshute Canyon. We played in the creek, and we even had a pet horned owl.
But one afternoon, I noticed that my parents looked worried.
“What are we going to do?” Mama asked Dad.
Dad’s shoulders hunched. His face was dusty with dirt from the mine. “I don’t know,” he said. “They’ll pay me eventually. Just not now.”
“Well, we need money,” Mama said. “The children need to eat.”
They were silent. What would we do if Dad didn’t get paid? My sister Carol came over by me. She looked scared, so I squeezed her hand.
Finally, Dad said, “I think we need a family prayer.”
Our whole family knelt in the dirt. Dad said the prayer. He asked Heavenly Father to help us know what we could do.
Afterward, I started walking toward the old wood stove where Mama had put the doughnuts she’d been frying. She made the best doughnuts, all golden brown with flecks of sugar. I was just reaching for one when—
“Stop!” Mama yelled.
I stared at her.
“We can sell them!” she said. “Don’t you think my doughnuts are good enough that people would buy them?”
I nodded. “Of course they are!”
“You kids can take them door to door when you go into town before Primary on Wednesday afternoon,” Mama said.
So that’s what we did. We sold a dozen doughnuts for a dime. We did it week after week.
Then one awful day Mama said, “We’re out of yeast, and I don’t have a penny to buy more.” She sat down and put her head in her hands.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Shh,” she whispered. “I’m praying.”
I folded my arms and closed my eyes too.
A few minutes later, Dad pulled up in our old car. He’d been down in the valley getting the mail. He handed a fat envelope to Mama. “What do you think is in that?”
Mama opened it and gave a little gasp. With shining eyes she pulled out a sample packet of yeast!
“But, Mama,” I asked, “when the baking company sent out that sample, you hadn’t even prayed yet.”
“True,” Mama said. “But in Isaiah the Lord says, ‘Before they call, I will answer.’”

Before the curtains opened, I stood nervously backstage in the dark silence. Many precious hours were sacrificed in preparation for this moment. The curtains opened to reveal a high school choir poised and ready to sing. Our conductor stood in the wing across from me. She caught my eye and smiled before entering the stage.
I was the accompanist for the high school concert choir. Our conductor chose a series of songs that meant a great deal to her. The music was difficult, especially for a high school choir. I had labored long and hard over these songs, attempting to perfect each note. At this moment, however, I wondered if I had done enough to prepare. I worried that I might not live up to my conductor’s expectations.
I cautiously stepped onto the stage, sensing a thousand pairs of eyes on me as I sat down at the piano. Although shaking, I positioned my hands for the first chord and waited for my conductor’s cue. She looked into my eyes, and together we began the piece. Immediately, I felt a change come over me. The notes came easily and comfortably to my trembling fingers. It seemed that I was not playing the piano alone—something else inside of me was. I believe that the Spirit was there, guiding my fingers and calming my heart. Each song was better than the last. The choir sang with surety and deep emotion. I had never felt the Spirit so strongly in my young life.
My eyes brimmed with tears as the last notes lingered on the piano. The audience was struck silent for a moment before they applauded and gave us a standing ovation. They had also felt that overwhelming influence of the Spirit. After taking our bows, my conductor and I left the stage. She fell into my arms and we both cried because the Spirit had touched us so deeply. I received many compliments, but in my heart, I knew that I did not play those beautiful pieces alone that night. Something much more powerful than I had delivered those songs with such divine beauty.
Just as I did my part to practice the music, I know that when I do what the Lord asks me to do, He will bless me and guide me. My efforts were blessed that night on the stage and are continually blessed in my daily life as I strive to do my best to obey His commandments. I may fall short, but He can make up the difference. I gained a testimony one night on a bright stage while sitting at a piano.

I am conscious, my brethren and sisters, that concluding this meeting will be President Kimball. Prior to the meeting I told him that I had three talks of varying lengths prepared. During the singing I received a note from him asking that I use the longest version.
I was reminded of an experience we had in Colorado when we were reorganizing a stake. The meeting was nearly over, there were about ten minutes left, and neither of us had spoken. The stake president announced me. President Kimball leaned over and said, “Please, you take all of the time.”
I bore a one-minute testimony and returned to my seat. As the stake president was announcing President Kimball, I noticed him writing a note. As he stood, he handed it to me. On it were five words, “Obedience is better than sacrifice.” And so, obediently, I proceed.

I hurriedly stuffed my “stripes” and whistle into my tote bag, dreading the long winter drive home. As the dressing room door swung closed behind me, I hefted the bag onto my shoulder and strolled out onto the darkened gymnasium floor. I glanced up once more at the still-lit scoreboard that read: Home 37, Visitors 41.
Only moments earlier five young men had been playing their hearts out, struggling to win their first and only victory at the end of a long, frustrating season. The crowd had filled every available seat and standing space in the small rural gym. They had yelled their throats hoarse, urging their sons and friends to perform at some superhuman level so that the memory of the season might not linger so disappointingly in their minds.
The burden of performance rested most heavily on a tall, square-shouldered farm boy. Even though he was notably the most talented of the small hometown squad, his and his teammates’ best efforts were not enough to achieve the victory that their hearts desired.
As I approached the exit on the far side of the gym, this same tall farm boy stepped from the crowd of somber teammates and school chums. I was somewhat apprehensive as he timed his stride to meet me at the door. Much too often in my 18 years of officiating high school basketball and football I had been approached by a disappointed fan or player wishing to release his frustration by verbally insulting my ability as an official or even my nonpartisan posture during the course of the game.
The young man had a hard, firm expression on his face as he blocked my exit. Suddenly he extended his hand and with a humble awkwardness blurted, “I would like to thank you, sir, for calling a good game. You know how much we wanted to win this one. We tried hard, but … anyway I know you tried to call just as good a game as we tried to play. Besides, it’s only a game.” He turned and melted back into the crowd of his friends. A warm feeling came over me as I stepped out into the harsh winter wind. This young man had achieved the greatest victory that could be won on the floor that evening. He had been a sportsman.
I’m not sure what ever happened to that young farm boy. I do know that he never reached any great level of athletic achievement. He doesn’t have any memories of state championships or come-from-behind victories. He was just a hardplaying young man who gave his best when he walked onto the court and understood that regardless of the outcome, “It was only a game.”

We started out like this:
“Let’s make a movie,” said the members of the bishops youth committee.
“Great idea,” said the ever-enthusiastic drama specialist. “Uh … which end of the camera do you point?”
Fortunately today’s automatic camera equipment is designed with a medium I.Q. in mind. You don’t have to be Stanley Kramer to come out with something on the film. Speaking of equipment, snoop around the ward a little. Especially after Christmas. You can probably unearth both a camera and cameraman. If worse comes to absolute worst, you can usually rent equipment from a camera store.
You will probably want your colossal extravaganza to run more than three minutes (that’s the length of a roll of film), so you’ll need a film editing machine and some adhesive splicing tabs to stick the films together—also available at the camera store. Anybody who finds film editing exciting has lived a very uneventful life. Also, the handy-dandy splicing tapes require the finger dexterity of a professional pickpocket. But it has to be done, so stick with it (pun intended). It is satisfying when you’ve finished. Film and development are the biggest costs, of course. We spent $105.00 for a 25-minute epic. Writing the script isn’t hard; just remember to put in plenty of action, plenty of people, plenty of outdoors. Look around for any unusual settings for action scenes. Is there a park with an old airplane, or an outdoor museum? Are there stores, houses, or barns with unusual exteriors? If nothing else, is there an open space where you can stage an indian raid or a medieval jousting tournament?
We decided on a train robbery because we had the elements close at hand. The Heber Creeper is an old-time steam engine that carries sightseers between Heber, Utah, and lower Provo Canyon. The owners were happy to participate in the robbery and even showed us the best spot to pull off the job.
Our ward had enough riding enthusiasts to get the outlaw band more or less mounted. We had purebred stallions, ancient hay burners, a Shetland pony, and one reluctant donkey. He was the only member of the cast who didn’t think it was a good idea. We first noticed this lack of enthusiasm when we had to drag him stiff-legged down the road behind my Volkswagen to load him on a truck. If you’ve got 53 horsepower on one end of the rope and one donkey power on the other, you’ve got a toss-up contest that could go either way. But we finally won.
We loaded him and the rest of the horses and outlaws and headed for the hills.
The train route winds through Provo Canyon, then hugs the hillside around Deer Creek reservoir, and cuts through the fields and pastures of Heber Valley. We set up near a grove of trees and waited.
“Here she comes!” shouted the lookout.
I hollered, “Lights! Action! Roll ’em!” (Whatever that means.)
Lights and roll ’em we didn’t get, but action we did. One blast of the engine whistle and every horse sponsored his own Kentucky Derby in his own direction. Only the donkey was left. He was too ornery to be scared. He just stood stiff-legged by the tracks and sang two-part harmony with the train as it thundered by.
The Creeper was a white puff of smoke in the distance by the time we rounded up the last of the horses, so we dubbed in the train scene later. Speaking of dubbing in, try as much as possible to shoot the scenes in order. Rehearse them while looking through the camera; then try to get it right the first take. It will save film costs and editing time later.
Our script called for a brawl scene climaxed by a pie in the face. For this scene we got the bishop’s permission, because he got the pie in the face. Blueberry cream. It was a beautiful scene and performed with excellent taste, the bishop said.
Close-ups and reaction-to-the-action shots help pace the action. And also try to frame your characters as large as practical in the shot unless it’s a deliberate long shot or scenery shot. Mount your camera on a tripod whenever possible. Even though your cameraman lives the Word of Wisdom, he’s got shaky hands.
You can get synchronized sound with some super-8 movie cameras, but this was more trouble and expense than we wanted. We used a silent screen format with printed titles to show the dialogue and credits. You can type these and photograph them with a close-up attachment on the movie camera. Here, especially, use the tripod, We recorded a rinky-tink piano background (put thumbtacks in the piano hammers to get the “tink”). We play the tape whenever we show the movie.
Showing the movie is, of course, the climax, particularly the premiere showing. We staged a variety show titled “Salute to the Silver Screen.” The whole ward was invited (and came), and the kids did songs, dances, and skits based on great movies of the past. (Unfortunately most of the great movies are in the past.) Then we honored the cast and showed the movie. “The Great Train Robbery” will never get an Oscar, but it was a “ward winning” movie.

I was in the Navy at the end of World War II, when I was a very young man. My training took place near San Diego, California. Everyone in the Navy had to know how to swim, or they wouldn’t let him out of boot camp (training camp). I had learned to swim as a boy and could do it quite well.

One day an officer said, “All of you who can swim get to go to San Diego for the day. Those who can’t must have a full day of swimming lessons. So those of you who can swim, line up over here, and we’ll put you on a bus and take you into town.” I lined up with the swimmers—there were about thirty or forty of us. But instead of having my group get on a bus, the officer marched us into the gym, where the swimming pool was.

I thought, You’re mixed up, fellow. We’re the ones who can swim. But, of course, I said nothing. We prepared for swimming and were ordered to jump into the deep end of the pool.

Most of us obeyed, but about ten men in our group didn’t know how to swim. They had thought that they could go to San Diego without measuring up. The officer didn’t let them just stand there—he pushed them into the water. He let them go under the water, come up gasping for air, and then go down again. When they came up for the second time, a big bamboo pole was held out to them, and they were pulled to safety. Then the officer said sternly, “Don’t you ever lie to me again!” I tell you, I was glad I hadn’t tried that! The experience taught me the value of being honest and true to yourself at all times.

The street was dark when he rounded the bend, except for the Tobins’ porch light shining yellow across the front lawn. He slowed down, peering carefully, uncertain at first of what he saw.

Sure enough, it was a person sitting on the porch, just like Tessie used to sit. It had to be her. He slowed to a crawl and turned into his driveway. She had only been a silhouette before, but now his headlights caught her and she blinked in surprise.

Tessie! So different, and yet, so much the same. Long brown hair, big eyes, and she was small, so much smaller than he’d pictured the grown-up Tessie to be.

He climbed out slowly, wondering if she was as glad to see him as he was to see her. She was a silhouette again, watching him. He waited under the birch tree.

“Hi.”

Her voice sounded unsteady, and for the first time he thought of how she must feel, seeing her childhood buddy all grown up.

He cleared his throat. “Is that you, Tessie? I hardly recognize you.”

“It’s me, only they call me Tess now.” There was an older tone in her voice now, maybe a touch of rebellion. He stepped closer and could see her more plainly, dressed in jeans and a simple red sweater, looking just like the little girl who’d gone to her first football game with him.

“I kept hearing how grown-up you’d become. I was almost afraid to see you.”

“Well, I am 13.”

“But you’re still Tessie.” He said it forcefully, almost as if his saying so would make it true.

She watched him, her head tilted. “You’ve been on a mission or something, haven’t you? For your church.”

“Yes, in Colombia.”

“Well, I have new friends now.” She looked away.

Could she really be like this, so cold and calculating? Could she have changed so much?

“I was hoping that you’d help me get the car back in shape.”

“It runs fine. You just drove up in it.”

“The clutch doesn’t feel right, and the brakes need adjusting.”

“Go to a mechanic.”

He stared. “This isn’t much of a welcome. I know that I’ve been gone a long time, but I thought that at least you’d be here, excited to see me. I guess I was wrong.”

He turned to go.

“Easy for you to say!”

He stopped.

“Where were you when I needed a friend? You just left, and I had nobody. You said that you’d be back after college, but you never came back, not that summer, not ever, and I had to find new friends.”

She was crying now, her shoulders shaking.

“Every time I get a friend, they always leave. My dad didn’t want me. When I wrote to him and said that I’d run away and live with him if he sent me the plane fare, he never even wrote back. You were a pretty good substitute, but you didn’t really care about me either, because you had college and a mission to think about, much more important than me. Well, I don’t need you either, because I have new friends now, and they’re a lot more fun than you ever were.”

“Tessie, I never knew any of that.” He sat beside her, put his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away and buried her face in her hands.

“Honestly, Tess, I never knew that you were lonely. I wanted to write, but I’m not very good at it. I have your picture, right in the front of my wallet. You’re my best friend. I need you.”

And she needed him. He’d been wrong, thinking that he didn’t have anything to offer a 13-year-old girl. He had a lot to offer, the same thing he’d always had to offer. He’d gone to South America for two years to teach the gospel of Christ, yet he’d neglected to share it with one of the most important people in his life, his next-door neighbor.

“Listen, you cry all you want to, but when you’re done, we’re going to the Ice Cream Hut for hot fudge sundaes.”

“I can’t let anybody see me like this.” She sat straighter, wiping her eyes.

“Then you can stay in the car. Hey, I’ll bet the car would love to have both of us riding around in it again. I suppose it’s been pretty lonely, parked in the driveway all these years.”

“I see it every day on my way to the bus stop.” She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Sometimes I talk to it, but not out loud. Sometimes I pretend that you’re home again and we’re working on it, like we used to.”

“But I am home.” He grinned. “And this time I’m not leaving until I give you a special present.”

“Present? What kind of present?”

“It’s another friend, a friend of mine who never leaves, even when everybody else turns away.”

She squinted in the porch light. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you about it some other time. Right now I need an ice cream sundae covered with hot fudge.”

She giggled, the same old giggle, and they walked toward the car.

A rest home may not seem like the best place to go for a night of fun and action, but the young men and the young women of the Spokane Third Ward, Spokane Washington North Stake, found that with lots of enthusiasm and a great attitude, almost any place can be fun.
The youth donated items from home that were no longer in use (planter boxes, games, etc.), and then took them to a local rest home to “auction” to the residents there. Each youth was paired with a resident and given play money to “buy” items with.
“I wasn’t sure I would like this, but it was really fun,” says deacon Luke Shaw.
The youth enjoyed the activity so much, they are considering going once, going twice, going three times a year!

“My mother is a pioneer,” says Brynnly Anderson, a Laurel from Salt Lake City, Utah. “When I was a baby, my dad worked for the Church and we were asked to move to South America. There my mother had to learn Spanish, a new culture, and a new lifestyle. I have never heard her complain about having to move. She is very giving and unselfish, especially when it comes to her children. She is a great pioneer example to me.”

When I was 11, I helped my ward build a new Church building. The members helped build them in those days—pounding nails, painting walls, and doing all sorts of things.
President David O. McKay was the ninth President of the Church and served from 1951 until 1970.
When I heard that President David O. McKay (1873–1970) would dedicate the building, I really wanted to be there. My parents said that I could go. I went early and sat on the front row.
I remember seeing President McKay up close. I saw the way he stood, how he talked to people, how he treated people. He had bright blue eyes and white hair. He looked like a prophet. When I heard him speak and say the dedicatory prayer, I knew in my heart that this was God’s prophet.
I had a powerful spiritual impression from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” Heavenly Father was telling me through the Holy Ghost that President McKay was His prophet.
Once I knew that President McKay was God’s prophet, I knew that the Church was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I knew that the Book of Mormon and the Restoration of the gospel were true. I also knew that all the prophets, from Joseph Smith to David O. McKay, were God’s prophets too.
Now every time a new prophet is called, I’ve had that same confirmation come from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” It all started when I was a boy.

Slanting patterns of sunlight fell across the green bedspread and across Jesse’s face. She opened her eyes and lay quietly for a moment in the unfamiliar room. She closed them again and pictured the pleasant home where she used to live in Long Beach, California: the greenness everywhere, the long white beaches, the sea air, and the small swimming pool in their own yard. I’ll miss the swimming pool most of all, she thought, and the chance it gave me to swim every day. This town at the foot of the mountains feels very different, but it must have a good pool somewhere.
And today she would find it. Her mother had promised her they would. Jesse threw back the covers. Placing her hands under her knees, she swung her limp legs off the bed and sat up. She pulled her wheelchair close to the bed and shifted herself into it. Banging the chair impatiently against the door frame, she maneuvered into the bathroom.
“Need any help?” her mother called from the kitchen.
“No thanks,” Jesse said, finally working the chair into the narrow room.
At breakfast in the large, sunny kitchen, she reminded her mother about going swimming.
“There’s a lot of unpacking still to do, and you haven’t started on your language arts lessons.”
“I hate English, and you did say that we could go today.”
“I know, and we will. Anyway, doing the work at home is better than going to summer school, don’t you think?”
Jesse sighed. “Yes, it’s better than that. I just wish I’d worked harder last year and didn’t have to do it now.”
“Why don’t you work on your studies this morning while I put things away. I’ll find out where there’s a good swimming pool, then drive you there this afternoon.”
“Sounds pretty good,” Jesse said. “I’ll try to get something done.” She wheeled out onto the wide, pleasant front porch and set her books on a table. She looked up and down the tree-lined street at the neat frame houses with small front lawns. There were no fences, no hedges; everything was in plain view. Jesse missed the privacy of her yard in California with its redwood fence and tall shrubs.
A girl about Jesse’s age emerged from a white house directly across the street. She hopped lightly down the front steps, picked up an old bicycle from the front lawn, and languidly swung her leg over the tattered seat. As she coasted down her driveway and into the street, she gave Jesse a casual wave. Jesse waved back and watched the girl disappear around the corner, then managed to do one work sheet before the girl reappeared with a loaf of bread under one arm.
At that moment Jesse’s mother came out onto the porch. She put a gentle hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “How about inviting that girl to go swimming with us this afternoon?” she asked.
“I don’t know her.”
“You’d get to know her.”
“Maybe so.” Jesse shrugged. “She looks like she’d be a good swimmer.”
The girl’s name was Diana. She and Jesse found very little to talk about as they rode to the pool. Jesse avoided dressing rooms because they usually were impossible to maneuver in, so the girls wore their suits and removed their street clothes in the car outside the pool.
Jesse’s mother left the two girls at the gate, and Jesse wheeled her wheelchair through the entrance, where they paid, and over to the pool. Jesse was used to curious stares, but she would have preferred being home in her own pool. The pool was not crowded, however, and only a few people watched as she shifted out of the chair, grasped the railing, and lowered herself onto the steps leading down into the water.
Once in the water, Jesse became like anyone else. If anyone stared, it was with admiration as her smooth, powerful strokes took her quickly to the other end of the pool and back before Diana had stowed the chair over by the fence. She did four more laps, relishing the cool water and her feeling of freedom and mobility. In the water her useless legs, trailing obediently behind her, were no problem as her strong arms took her smoothly through the water. At the deep end she stopped and looked around for Diana. Jesse finally spotted her splashing around in the shallow end. “Come on down here!” Jesse called.
Diana struck out, splashing and thrashing. As she reached the center of the pool, the splashing increased, and Jesse could see that Diana was no longer making any real progress. Her wild strokes became more frantic. Jesse swam quickly to her, caught one hand in hers, and pulled her to the edge. Diana sputtered and coughed and rubbed her face with her hands.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t swim very well?”
“Was I supposed to shout across the pool, ‘I’m a lousy swimmer’?” She coughed again.
“Let’s get out a minute,” Jesse suggested. She shifted herself up the steps and onto the edge of the pool and sat with her legs dangling in the water. Diana climbed out and sat silently beside her.
“I’m not very good at lifesaving because I can only use my arms, so don’t do that again,” Jesse said, smiling.
“There’s a lifeguard here,” Diana said coolly.
Rebuffed, Jesse didn’t say anything.
“I don’t really like the water much,” Diana said, breaking the silence.
“Maybe we could just sunbathe for a while,” Jesse offered. Diana nodded, and Jesse shifted herself away from the pool’s edge while Diana spread out their beach towels. The two girls stretched out on their stomachs under the hot summer sun.
“I’m hungry,” Diana said, rolling over onto her back. “It must be all that exercise.” She laughed lightly, her easy good humor restored. She stood and got some money from her beach bag. Jesse watched her stride easily to the candy machine against the fence. She returned with two chocolate bars and put one under Jesse’s nose. Jesse raised her head and looked first at the candy bar and then at Diana.
“Thanks anyway, but I don’t eat much of this kind of stuff,” she said, handing the candy back to Diana.
“Why not?” Diana asked through a mouthful of chocolate.
“I try to keep in condition.”
“Condition for what?”
“Well, I want to be on the swim team at school, and I do wheelchair racing and stuff. Also, it’s easy for me to put on weight because I sit so much.”
“You’re really an athlete, huh?”
“I have a lot of respect for my body, such as it is,” Jesse said quietly, “and I try not to put junk into it.” Trying to sound casual, she added, “What do you like to do for exercise? I’ve seen you ride your bike. …”
Diana thoughtfully licked the chocolate from her fingertips. “I ride my bike to get places because it’s easier than walking. They make us exercise at school, but, other than that, I don’t do much. I’d rather read.”
Jesse stared at her.
“What’s the matter?” Diana asked.
Jesse shook her head. “It’s just that your body is so perfect, and you don’t care much about it.”
Diana shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t all have to be athletes.”
“No.” Jesse put her head down, and they soaked up the sun in silence for a while. Later they swam again, Jesse doing vigorous laps up and down the pool while Diana floated on her back or splashed around in the shallow end.
Jesse’s mother came to get them, and they rode home in silence. While Jesse transferred from the car into her chair, Diana climbed out quickly and called her thanks as she crossed the street to her own house.
“I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of her,” Jesse said as her mother pulled her up the few stairs onto the porch. “We don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Having something in common helps, but it’s not absolutely necessary for friendship,” her mother commented.
The next morning Jesse again sat on the front porch with her English book, two apples, and a teenage romance she had been reading. She opened her grammar book and stared for a few minutes at the page without reading it. She picked up an apple, studied its pattern of white specks on red for a while, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully.
The mountains loomed above the houses across the street, and the morning light touched the rock outcropping and made them golden. Light filtered greenly through the maple leaves, making dappled patterns on the sidewalks and lawns. Jesse itched to be doing something or going somewhere. Reluctantly she looked at the page again. Pronouns. What could be more boring than pronouns? She could hear quiet morning sounds up and down the street—dishes clinking softly as they were washed, a hoe scratching, a ball hitting against a house. She looked longingly at the novel, but she wouldn’t read more of it until she’d done some work on her English. She sighed, and as she picked up the textbook again, she saw Diana come out her front door.
Diana waved to Jesse, hesitated for a moment, then crossed the street with her long, easy stride.
Grateful for any distraction from the grammar, Jesse smiled and waved and then pulled the lawn chair out, motioning for Diana to sit down.
“What are you doing?” Diana asked, looking at the books.
“I did so poorly in language arts last year that they said I had to go to summer school. But since we were moving, they let me take the course at home and send the work sheets in.”
“Why did you do so badly?”
“I guess I was more interested in swimming and racing. The teacher gave us a lot of homework, and I never did it.”
Diana took the apple that Jesse offered her and bit into it. “It’s terrible to have to do homework in the summer.” She chewed thoughtfully. “But at least it’s not a hard subject.”
“I think it’s pretty hard. Pronouns are hard—and very boring.”
“They’re a little boring, but they’re not hard and there aren’t too many of them. I’ll help you.”
Jesse smiled up at her. “Will you?” she said. “That would be great. I have to read some stories and poetry too.”
“That’s the fun part,” Diana said. She picked up the romance novel from the table. “You don’t read books like this, do you?”
“Well, yes,” Jesse said. “They’re kind of interesting. Don’t you read them?”
Diana didn’t answer for a minute. She turned the book over, put it back down on the table, then smiled at Jesse. “I have a lot of respect for my brain, such as it is. I try not to put junk in it.”
Jesse looked at her for a minute, then laughed. “Suppose you help me learn pronouns, and I’ll help you with your swimming.”
“Sounds like a good summer,” Diana answered. She pulled her chair up to the table and opened the grammar book between them.

“I examined the matter studiously for two years before I made up my mind to receive that book … I wished time sufficient to prove all things for myself.” (JD, 3:91, 8 August 1852.)

On another occasion Brigham explained this reserve:
“Upon the first opportunity I read the Book of Mormon, and then sought to become acquainted with the people who professed to believe it … I watched to see whether good common sense was manifest; and if they had that, I wanted them to present it in accordance with the Scriptures … when I had fully meditated everything in my mind, I completely accepted it and not until then.” (JD, 8:38, 6 April 1860.)

After about a year and a half, he was finally moved to action. He was visited by a group of Mormon missionaries from Columbia, Pennsylvania, one of whom sat him down and bore his testimony to him:
“When I saw a man without eloquence, or talents for public speaking, who could only say, ‘I know, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith is a prophet of the Lord,’ the Holy Ghost proceeding from that individual illuminated my understanding, and light, glory and immortality were present. I was compelled by them, driven with them, and I knew for myself that the testimony of the man was true … My own judgment, natural endowments, and education bowed to this simple, but mighty testimony … It filled my system with light, and my soul with joy.” (JD, 1:90 13 June 1852.)

Brigham was baptized in Mendon on April 15, 1832 in his own little millstream behind his carpenter shop by that same missionary whose testimony had so influenced him.