Gospel Story Finder

I sat uneasily in the soft chair, glancing about Mr. Blaine’s office. During four years at Canyon del Oro High School in Tucson I had been in the vice principal’s office only once before—as a representative of the Honor Society, making a request for a benefit dance.
As I waited for Mr. Blaine, I avoided casting even a cursory glance at “Rock” Broch, who sat in the chair next to me. I was still breathing heavily. Already my right eye was swelling with pain, my knuckles burned, and I suspected that there was still a little blood on my face even though I had tried to wipe it off with the back of my hand.
“Well, well,” a deep baritone boomed behind me. I stiffened as Mr. Blaine entered the office from behind. For a moment he stood behind his desk with his hands in his pockets, studying the two of us. He was a squat, muscular man with a prominent flat nose which, according to rumors, he had received as a semi-professional boxer when he was younger.
“Well, Mr. Williams, this is a surprise.” Sheepishly I returned his stare. “And you, Mr. Broch,” he added, turning from me. He rubbed his chin and then dropped into his chair. Hands behind his head, he studied us curiously. “It’s hard to tell who won,” he mused. “You both look a little worse for wear.”
I shifted nervously in my chair and glanced down at the gold carpeted floor. “Well, before I have your folks pick you up …”
“Pick us up?” I stammered, cutting in.
Mr. Blaine nodded. He glanced over at a calendar hanging on the wall. “Let’s see. Today’s Tuesday. You’ll be able to come back to school—next Monday morning.”
“Monday morning?” I rasped. “You mean we’re kicked out?” I leaned forward and wet my lips. “I have a wrestling tournament over at Flowing Wells this Friday and Saturday.”
Mr. Blaine began to chuckle dryly. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his brow. “You had a wrestling tournament, Mr. Williams. You just withdrew.”
His words hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t miss that tournament. Last season I had taken second out of 16 guys in my weight class, behind the same kid who later beat me for the state championship. This year the Flowing Wells Tournament was all mine. And it was to be my first step to the state championship.
I coughed. “Uh, Mr. Blaine, I really can’t miss that tournament. I mean …”
“You should have been thinking of that 15 minutes ago,” he cut me short. “Before you and Mr. Broch decided to break your knuckles on each other’s jaws.”
Mr. Blaine reached for a pen and began filling out our suspension forms. I waited a moment, hoping he would change his mind, at least allow for a little discussion. He didn’t even look up.
For years I’d had a goal of taking state in wrestling. But there had always been someone better just ahead of me. As a sophomore I was forced to wrestle junior varsity behind a kid who became state champion. As a junior, when I had the varsity spot at CDO, I made it all the way to the state championship round, only to lose by three points to a kid who took state for the second year in a row. But those kids were gone now. The championship was mine. I was sure of it. And then three weeks ago Rock Broch had moved in from Tucson High and challenged me at 145. Everybody called him “Rock” because he was hard and muscular. The year before he had taken state at 132.
Broch was a quiet kid with blond hair, a beach tan, and blue eyes. Every girl at CDO thought he was Tucson’s answer to Tom Cruise. Broch really wasn’t set on himself. But he was definitely set on my spot at 145. Under other circumstances we could have been good friends. I could get along with most anyone. But my senior year I couldn’t afford to have anybody between me and the state championship.
In order for anybody at CDO to nail down the varsity spot, he had to win two out of three matches against any challenger. The first time Broch and I wrestled in a challenge match I beat him seven to five. The next afternoon he beat me three to two. The following practice we wrestled to a two-two draw before Coach Rencher called us aside and made us a proposition.
“You know, guys,” Coach Rencher started out, “this is crazy. We’ve got the two best kids in the state, wrestling for the same spot. We’re going to be the only school in Arizona with a state champion wrestling JV. One of you ought to go to 155. There’s nobody in the state that can beat either one of you in either weight class.
“Broch can go to ’55 any time,” I said stubbornly.
“Don’t bet on it, Williams,” Broch muttered.
“It would be better for the team,” Coach Rencher pointed out. We didn’t listen. “All right, tomorrow you wrestle until one of you wins. There won’t be a draw. And every week for the rest of the season we’re going to go through these same challenges. It’s a lousy waste!”
I was convinced I could beat Broch. I might have done, but the next day right after my calculus class I saw Broch with Sandi Millet, a girl in my ward. We’d been friends for years. I had even dated her a few times. Nothing serious, but we were more than just good friends. During the last week or so I’d noticed Broch take an interest in Sandi. It had irritated me some, but I’d let it pass. Today had been different.
As I came down the hall, I saw Sandi and Broch together. They were laughing and talking, and for a moment he held her hand. Instantly I was furious. It was like he was trying to push his way into everything I did. Something snapped inside of me, and I stomped over to Broch.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” I growled, pushing myself into his face before he hardly knew I was there.
“What’s your problem, Williams?” he answered, taking a small step backward.
“I’m looking at him,” I retorted.
“Michael,” Sandi burst out. “Stop it!”
“You’re crowding me, Williams,” Broch muttered, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Maybe you’d better find someplace else to stand then,” I replied.
I don’t remember who pushed first. It all happened so quickly, the only thing I remember clearly was stumbling backward and bumping into two sophomore girls. From that point everything was a fast-moving blur. The fight didn’t last long, maybe 10 or 15 seconds. That’s when Mr. Raymond, the science teacher, stepped in between us and brought us to the office. When everything was over my nose and lip were bleeding, and my right eye was swelling shut. Rock had a small gash above his left eye, a raw bruise on his right cheekbone, and a puffy lower lip.
“You’ve had a little trouble?” Mom gasped on the phone when I called her from Mr. Blaine’s office. “What kind of trouble?” she pressed.
I could feel my cheeks color, and I wished that Mr. Blaine had at least allowed me a little privacy, but I had had to make the call right there with Mr. Blaine and Broch listening to me fumble for an explanation. “Just come down,” I asked.
Mom arrived before Broch’s mother. As soon as she stepped into the office her mouth dropped open and she stared aghast at my face and my shirt with the top two buttons torn off. She spotted Broch and the angry glare on his face. “What—” She couldn’t even finish.
“It wasn’t anything, Mom,” I tried to explain calmly.
Mom looked toward Mr. Blaine for an explanation. “It seems that your son and Mr. Broch had a difference of opinion,” he said casually. “As a result both boys have chosen to take a short vacation from school. Until next Monday.”
“Yes, I understand how fights start,” Dad nodded somberly that evening when I tried to explain what had happened between Rock Broch and me. “Over stupid little nothings that don’t make any difference at all the next morning when you have time to think about them. There are better ways of solving your differences than resorting to your fists.”
“It was that Broch kid,” I argued, still not wanting to admit any blame. “He’s been trying to squeeze me out since he came.”
“I thought you were going to settle that issue on the wrestling mat—where it meant something to both of you. Now neither one of you wrestles.”
“There is one good thing,” I came back sullenly. “I can get caught up on some of my schoolwork.”
But Dad had other plans. From five-thirty to eight in the morning I studied. From eight until five I was cleaning the yard, straightening the garage, painting, mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, dusting, polishing windows. There was no end to the chores heaped on me. Then from five till nine I was back with my books. By the end of the day the only thing I wanted to do was crash into bed.
For four days, including Saturday, I maintained that rigorous routine. There was no time for diversion. It was all work and study. I did have a chance to do some thinking. The first day I insisted to myself that I would do the same thing again. The second day I admitted to myself that I might have been a little rash. By Saturday night I really felt stupid about the whole thing.
I had never looked forward to Sunday with anything close to wild anticipation, but after four days of hard labor I was grateful that Mom and Dad believed firmly in Sunday being a day of rest. Sunday morning, while I was still enjoying the luxury of sleeping past five-thirty, Bishop Morris called and asked if I would go over to the Thurman’s in the afternoon and take them the sacrament. Sister Thurman had been bedridden for almost a year, and each month the priests were assigned to take her the sacrament.
“I’d like you to go with a new boy in the ward,” the bishop told me over the phone. “The Pankratz family moved into the Stromeyer’s place two or three weeks back. They have a boy who’s a senior. Maurice is his name. He’s been going to his old ward, but I’d like to get him involved in things over here. Brother Pankratz isn’t a member. Sister Pankratz is partially active. But Maurice has been a real stalwart according to his old bishop. I’d like to keep him that way. I talked to Maurice this morning and told him you’d pick him up and take him with you to the Thurman’s. It will give you a chance to get him involved in the ward.”
That afternoon I drove over to where the Stromeyers had lived. The woman who answered the door looked too old to be Maurice’s sister and too young to be his mother. For a moment I wasn’t sure I had the right place. “Mrs. Pankratz? Is—is Maurice here?” I finally managed to stammer. “I was supposed to pick him up.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling warmly, “so you’re the one the bishop called about. Come in. I’ll call Maurice.”
We started in, and then she stopped and studied my eye. Instinctively my hand shot to my face. I grinned sheepishly and shrugged.
“That’s a nasty bump,” she said.
I coughed to hide my embarrassment. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I muttered.
She led me into the living room and I sank into a large, cream-colored sofa. I spotted a news magazine on the coffee table in front of me and reached or it. Just then someone came down the hall and entered the room. Rock Broch!
The magazine dropped from my hands, and immediately I was on my feet. His shock was as sudden and as unexpected as mine. I noticed the dark slash just above his right eye, and I could see he had had stitches. For a short moment the two of us stared at each other, and then I blurted out, “What are you doing here?” Rock stared at me a moment and then answered coolly, “I live here. What’s your excuse?”
I swallowed and fidgeted anxiously. “I came to pick up Maurice,” I explained hoarsely.
“For what?” Rock demanded.
“Bishop Morris sent me over to pick him up.”
“Oh, you made it,” Mrs. Pankratz said cheerily as she came up behind Rock. “Have you two introduced yourselves?”
“We’ve run into each other at school,” Rock answered, still glaring at me.
Mrs. Pankratz studied Rock’s cut. She glanced at me and remarked lightly, “You and Maurice look like twins.” She smiled and patted Rock’s shoulder.
I hesitated. Maurice! When the bishop had said Maurice I had expected some myopic, mousy kid in thick-lensed glasses. Not Rock Broch! Immediately I began groping for an escape. There was none. I stammered, “We won’t be long. Just a few minutes.”
Stiffly the two of us walked to the car. I could feel my cheeks grow warm with color as I dug into my pocket for the keys. I jammed them into the ignition, started the engine, and pulled onto the street. For the first two blocks neither one of us spoke.
“I had no idea you were—Maurice,” I remarked. “You don’t look like Maurice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shook my head. “How was I supposed to know that you were Maurice Pankratz?”
“I’m Maurice Broch.”
I glanced over at him. “Who was that back there?”
“My mom. She and my dad were divorced when I was a kid. She married again.”
There was another spell of silence. “I didn’t know you were Mormon,” I said.
“It wasn’t exactly written all over you either. And you’re the first assistant in the priests quorum?” It was definitely an accusation of hypocrisy. Apparently the bishop had told him.
“I’m not perfect,” I answered. “But at least I go to church. I haven’t seen you lately.”
“I’ve been going to my old ward.” There was a pause and then a mumbled addition, “I was the first assistant in my old ward, and we were finishing up some …”
“You were the first assistant?” I cut in incredulously.
We drove the last nine blocks in baffled silence. When we did reach the Thurman’s place, I drove right past it with a quick comment, “That’s the Thurman’s place.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
I continued down the street for half a block and then pulled over to the curb. “We really ought to get someone else to do this,” I muttered, angry and frustrated with Rock and myself. “But I don’t even know who we could get now. Brother Reynolds is already back there waiting with his wife. He’s the priests adviser. And I’ve got the sacrament things.”
Rock didn’t respond immediately. Finally he did ask, “Well, are we going to just sit here and make them wait longer?”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the modest home of the Thurmans. Taking a deep breath I slumped down in the seat. “You don’t know the Thurmans.” I shook my head. “They’re good people. It kills Sister Thurman not to be able to go to church. A lot of people look for excuses not to go. Not her. The highlight of her whole month is when we take her the sacrament. Can you imagine that? She’s back there getting excited because we’re coming. She cries every time. She fasts ahead of time.” I smiled weakly. “She’s not even supposed to fast. She eats at three instead of noon. That’s as long as she can fast. Even then it makes her sick sometimes, but she does it anyway. And so what does she get today? Us,” I muttered bitterly.
For a couple of minutes the two of us just sat there. I can’t speak for Broch, but I was on one terrible guilt trip. I kept thinking about a scripture. It was something about going before the Lord and having bad feelings toward your neighbor. The challenge was to patch things up first with your neighbor and then go to the Lord.
I kept thinking of Brother and Sister Thurman waiting. She would be propped up and wrapped in blankets on their worn brown couch. He would be dressed in his gray suit and sitting on a kitchen chair next to her. There would be a small table to their right draped with a white cloth. That was for the sacrament. Two of the Laurels and their adviser, Sister Benson, would be there, along with Brother Reynolds and his wife. All of them would be waiting for Broch and me. I knew there was no way I could go into that humble home and administer the sacrament feeling the way I had toward Broch. The Thurmans deserved more than a display of hypocrisy.
I cleared my throat and sat up, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m sorry about Tuesday,” I muttered, still looking straight ahead over the hood of the car. Rock didn’t reply. “It was—” I swallowed. “It was a dumb thing to do.” I pressed my lips together. “I guess it was—well, it was probably my fault.” For the longest time I debated and then slowly I held my hand out to Rock. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.
He looked down at my outstretched hand and then reluctantly took it briefly. “But,” he added quickly, “this doesn’t change anything where wrestling is concerned.”
“I’ll be ready.”
We were inside the Thurman’s place for almost an hour. It was a simple service with Brother and Sister Thurman holding hands the whole while. Rock blessed the bread. I blessed the water. We had a short testimony meeting. Even Rock and I bore ours. Rock spoke of his plans of going on a mission. He confided in us his desire to get his mother and stepfather active in the Church. He talked about his real dad and how he hoped that someday he’d see the importance of the gospel in his life. He mentioned a commitment that he had made to read the scriptures every day, even if it was for just a few minutes. He expressed his appreciation for the opportunity of coming into the Thurmans’ home and feeling of their spirit.
Everyone there shed a tear or two; the Spirit was so strong.
It’s strange how an experience like that can change a person. I saw a side of Rock that I’d never even suspected. At one point during our meeting I glanced over at him and saw a mist in his eyes. At the same time I noticed the dark cut above his eye. I wondered how I could have ever been that angry with him.
After the closing prayer we shook hands with Brother and Sister Thurman. They thanked us over and over.
Rock and I didn’t speak all the way to his place. When I pulled into his driveway, we sat for a few seconds and then I remarked, “You know, I’ve been doing a little thinking. There are some things I could help you with in wrestling. But the way things are right now, I never will. I’d just be beating myself if I helped you out any. You could probably help me too. You have a mean fireman’s carry. I’ve never been much good with a fireman’s carry. But you wouldn’t want to help me if I was just going to turn around and use it on you.”
“I’ll go ’55,” Broch said quietly. “It’s really no big deal to me. You had the spot last year. I guess I’ve been pretty stubborn about the whole thing.”
“No,” I came back. “I wasn’t suggesting that. I’ll take ’55. That’s what I was building up to. At the start of the season I was probably a few pounds heavier than you.”
“No, I’ll take ’55. I want to.”
I looked over at him. “Shall we fight over who goes ’55?”
We both laughed.
“I guess we’ll never know who really was—” I didn’t finish. I shrugged. “And then maybe that never was important.”
Broch grinned. “Probably not. But don’t think just because we’re not in the same weight class that I’m going to let you slide.” He shook his head. “I’m going to be pushing you all the way. The first time you start dogging it and letting up, I’m going to hammer you.”
I laughed, feeling good. And here I’d thought Rock stood between me and the championship. Now I could see he might be the one who would help me reach it.

I grew up in Tahiti. My mother and father joined the Church when I was a child, but I was not baptized right away. When I was 11 years old, I went to Primary one Wednesday afternoon. We sat on a mat under a mango tree while my Primary teacher told us the story of the First Vision. As she spoke, my heart started to pound. I had a strong feeling that Joseph Smith’s First Vision was true and that he was a true prophet. After that spiritual experience, I told my parents, “I have a testimony, and I want to be baptized.”

Another time, Joseph was again playing ball with some men and young men from town. When the game was finished, Joseph called the men together.
Brethren, hitch up your teams.
The men did just as Joseph asked and drove into the forest to gather wood.
This is the 39th and last wagon.
We did good work today, brother. Would anyone like to pull sticks?
Joseph was strong and good at a game called pulling sticks. He pulled up each opponent, one after another.
When they finished pulling sticks, Joseph called the men and young men around again.
Take these wagons out, and cut the wood for anyone who needs it.
The Saints loved to do what the Prophet asked, even if they were weary from a long day of hard work and play.
Haul ’em out, boys! Let’s do what the Prophet asks.

Another example is given of a man whose daughter came to him one evening and said, “Dad, may I use the car tonight?”
He replied, “It isn’t here.”
“What do you mean, ‘It isn’t here.’ Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I let a man borrow it.”
“Well, who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand. When will he bring it back?”
The father then explained, saying, “You seem to be quite concerned about my car, and yet you don’t seem to appreciate my wanting to know about your dates—with whom and where you are going and when you will come back. I have far more interest in you and your welfare than in my automobile, and I hope you can understand now why I ask you those questions.”

I wish you could have been with us as Lee Grisham and I spent last Christmas in the Holy Land. Lee and I had been companions together in the mission field and had received permission to visit the Holy Land en route home. I was a typical Latter-day Saint who had read all my life about the Holy Land, and Lee was a Jewish convert of a few years. So together we shared a desire to visit the land of his forefathers.
We flew into Tel Aviv, where the climate was warm. Once there, we quickly learned how Israelis try to make the best of everything—on the bus ride into town we listened to excerpts from a Haydn symphony to help us forget the rough ride.
The next day we went by bus to Jerusalem, where instead of seeing our mental image of a 20,000-year-old town, we were shocked to find a very large and somewhat modern city, although it is divided into what are called the old and new sections. But the old city really doesn’t have too much to do with Jesus’ life, as much of it was built by the Crusaders and others. Rome destroyed the Jerusalem Jesus knew, leaving not “one stone upon another.” (Mark 13:2.)
After we had seen these sights and many more in Jerusalem, we spent several days in other parts of the Holy Land. One special thrill was conducting our own little sacrament meeting, having been previously authorized, on the shores of Lake Galilee, where our bread was broken from the Jewish bagel and the water came from the sea. A few days later, after having walked the hills, put our bare feet into the rough soil, tasted the water, felt the cold night air, and heard the bleat of the sheep, we found that the scriptures had become a living reality to us. But that wasn’t all. We had tried to follow in the actual footsteps of Jesus. Now our hearts tell us to follow the Savior in all the other paths of living that he has set for us. With the help of the Spirit, I know we can all do it.

Anna Waschuck flicked her blond braids back over her shoulders and picked up another cabbage leaf. As she spooned rice filling into the cabbage cup, she glanced anxiously at her mother working beside her. How am I going to ask her? she wondered. Mama will be disappointed. She always likes the family around her for Svyata Vechera (holy supper that many Ukrainian families have on Christmas Eve).
“Why must we have our Christmas in January!” Anna complained, as she folded the leaf and rolled it into a neat little bundle.
“Because in the Ukraine some still use the Julian calendar and Christmas there falls on a different day than here,” Mama replied.
“But it makes life so difficult!” exclaimed Anna. “Everything happens when we are celebrating. I miss all the fun!”
“Ah—h, that’s why you’ve been so quiet. Is there something special tonight that you want to do?”
“Oh, Mama! Kathy is having a skating party this afternoon, and she’s invited me to go.”
“When we finish making the pirohy, you may go. But be back in time for Svyata Vechera.”
“She’s having pizza after the skating. If I go, I won’t be home in time for the supper.”
“Anna, it won’t be quite the same unless the whole family is together for the feast. But I won’t forbid you to go to the party. You are old enough to make your own decision.”
They worked in silence, while Anna wondered what to do. At last in annoyance she snapped, “Why do we have to keep Ukrainian customs? We’re Canadian now!”
“Some of the old familiar ways are a comfort to your father and me in this new land,” Mama replied quietly.
As Anna rolled the last of the cabbage leaves, she was undecided about what to tell Kathy. She thought of the fun it would be to play crack-the-whip on the ice and laugh with her friends. At home there was only her eight-year-old brother Steve, and just playing with him wouldn’t be much fun. But Mama would be unhappy with an empty place at the table for Svyata Vechera. There will be another Svyata Vechera next year but there might not be another party for me so I must go! Anna finally decided.
Anna lay the last holubtsi in the pot, and looked at the clock. It is one o’clock! The party begins at two. We’ll never finish making the pirohy in time! she thought. I must work faster.”
Mother began rolling and cutting the pastry for the pirohy. Anna filled each square with a small ball of potato and cheese mixture. Quickly she folded the pastry over, squeezed the edges together, and dropped the dumpling onto the pile. Mother would boil them just before supper.
While she worked, Anna kept peeking at the clock. The hands seemed to race. It’s quarter to two already! I’ll never make it, she worried.
“I see you’re watching the clock. You’ve decided to go,” her mother said. “Run along. I’ll finish.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Anna called, as she hurried to get her skates and into her heavy clothes.
Before running out the back door, she turned to say good-bye. But even though Mama waved and smiled Anna could see the hurt in her face. The uncomfortable thought that Mama still had several foods to prepare nagged at Anna. There had to be twelve meatless dishes, one for each of the apostles.
“But she can manage,” Anna murmured reassuringly. “She had to do it all alone when I was little.”
As Anna walked along, a cold gust of wind blew icy flakes from a snowbank over her. It’s a good thing I have these warm mittens, she thought, looking with pride at the exquisitely embroidered flowers on them. Mama had made them and no one else at school had such a beautiful pair. The memory of the many things her mother did for her came crowding into Anna’s mind, mingled with a picture of her mother’s sad face when she had waved good-bye. Mama had prepared and looked forward happily to the holy supper. It would be disappointing to all the family if there were an empty chair at the table.
Anna stopped a moment while she decided what to do. She hoped Kathy would understand. She would be sorry to miss her skating party but there would be others they could attend together before spring.
Anna turned and ran back toward home. And when she opened the door, the pleasure she saw on Mama’s face made Anna glow inside.
“Come, Annushka, let us set the table,” was all Mama said.
Before spreading their best embroidered tablecloth, Anna strewed a handful of hay in memory of the Christ Child. Then she placed three braided loaves of bread on top of each other in the center of the table. Next Anna inserted a white candle in the top loaf, and encircled the bottom one with twigs of evergreen. As she worked, Anna recalled her excitement when Mama had first let her prepare the table for Svyata Vechera.
Soon Father arrived home from the mine, and while he washed up, Anna and Mama changed into their snowy white Ukrainian blouses covered with embroidery. When Father and Steve had on their high-necked shirts, her mother declared everything ready. Mama brought in the steaming dishes, and they sat down at the table. Little Steve watched out the window for the first star to appear to signal the beginning of the meal.
As they waited, Anna looked at their happy faces. Mama beamed with joy. It’s lovely to be with my family on such an occasion, Anna thought. And it is good to be able to enjoy old customs as well as new ones!

I helped take care of Grandma Pinegar a few Sundays ago. Grandma is 99 and very frail. She is blind and quite deaf, and recently it has become difficult for her to talk in more than a whisper. Her little body is so bent over that there is not much room in her lungs for air.
I leaned close to her and asked, “Grandma, tell me how the gospel has blessed your life.” She whispered softly and shared her gratitude for the promptings and guidance she had received from the Holy Ghost.
When her second child, James, was 18 months old, he and his older brother were playing outside and she was watching them from the window. Suddenly she couldn’t see him and ran from the house, calling and searching frantically. There was water in the irrigation ditch that shouldn’t have been there, and she searched along the edge of the ditch and could see nothing. She ran for the hired hands to come and help and ran back to where the ditch went through a long culvert. Running to the other end of the culvert, she saw two little shoes, and pulled on them. When she had her son in her arms, she was prompted to clasp her hands together and place them under his stomach and carry him in front of her in this way, using her knee to hold some of his weight. She ran toward the road, crying for help. The promptings she received to carry him in such an unnatural manner saved his life.
Brothers and sisters, I am personally grateful for the promptings we received as a Primary presidency. During the general conference when we were sustained, President Gordon B. Hinckley described some of the terrible atrocities that have been inflicted on children throughout the world. We read in newspapers and periodicals of the evil influences that are invading our homes.
As a new and very concerned Primary presidency, we prayed and searched the scriptures and were led to a verse in Isaiah that describes conditions during the Millennium: “They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord” (Isa. 11:9). That was exactly what we wanted to have happen. We didn’t want any child to be hurt or destroyed, but we didn’t want to wait for the Millennium. We wanted that to happen right now. If our Primaries were full of the knowledge of the Lord, if our homes were full of the knowledge of the Lord, there would be peace and righteousness and the children would not be hurt in any way. We prayed to know how we could help that happen and were led to 2 Nephi 25:26. Our homes and our Primaries will be full of the knowledge of the Lord when “we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ.”
We are so grateful for the peace and hope these scriptures gave us and for the direction we received through the Holy Ghost to encourage Primary leaders to have Christ-centered Primaries.

I’ve seen this in my own family. My great-grandfather Martin Gassner was changed forever because a humble branch president answered the Savior’s call. In Germany in 1909, times were tough and money was tight. Martin worked as a welder in a pipe manufacturing plant. By his own admission, most paydays ended in drinking, smoking, and buying rounds at the pub. His wife finally warned him that if he didn’t change, she would leave.
One day, Martin’s coworker met him on the way to the pub with a crumpled religious booklet in his hand. He had found it on the street and told Martin that he felt something different after reading the pamphlet entitled Was wissen Sie von den Mormonen?, or What Do You Know About the Mormons? I’m certain that title has changed.
An address stamped on the back was just legible enough to decipher where the church was located. It was a considerable distance away, but they were moved by what they read and decided to take the train that Sunday to investigate. When they arrived, they found that the address was not the church they expected but a funeral home. Martin hesitated—because, really, a church in a funeral home sounded a little too much like a package deal.
But upstairs, in a rented hall, they found a small group of Saints. A man invited them to testimony meeting. Martin was touched by the Spirit and was so impressed by the simple, fervent testimonies that he bore his testimony. And it was there, in that most unlikely place, that he said he already knew it must be true.
Afterward the man introduced himself as the branch president and asked if they would return. Martin explained that he lived too far away and couldn’t afford the weekly trip. The branch president simply said, “Follow me.”
They walked a few blocks to a nearby factory where the branch president’s friend worked. After a short conversation, Martin and his friend were both offered jobs. Then the branch president led them to an apartment building and secured housing for their families.
All of this happened within two hours. Martin’s family moved the following week. Six months later they were baptized. The man once known as a hopeless drunk became so ardent in his new faith that people in town began calling him, perhaps not so affectionately, “the priest.”
As for the branch president, I cannot tell you his name—his identity has been lost to time. But I call him a disciple, ambassador, Christian, good Samaritan, and friend. His influence is still felt 116 years later, and I stand on the shoulders of his discipleship.
“There is a saying that you can count the seeds in an apple, but you can’t count the apples that come from one seed.” The seed planted by the branch president has produced countless fruit. Little would he have known that 48 years later, several generations of Martin’s family on both sides of the veil would be sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple.

In Sweden, during my last year of high school, I decided to apply to Brigham Young University in Utah. There was only one problem: no matter how fervently I prayed for God to confirm my decision, it just never felt right. I thought, “The answer couldn’t possibly be no, could it? In so many ways, BYU seems like it should be the right decision, especially because I want a temple marriage and my prospects at BYU are so much better than in Sweden.” Except it wasn’t right. Not for me. Not at that time.
Disappointed, I discarded my plans to attend BYU and applied to a university in Sweden. At about the same time that I would have left for my BYU adventure, I fell in love with Jonas—a recently returned missionary. Although we must have attended several youth activities together before Jonas left on his mission, I had never noticed him. How his charisma and infectious laugh escaped me remains a mystery!
Early in our relationship, Jonas told me that he had applied to BYU and hoped to attend the following semester. After his first semester in Provo, we married in the temple and began attending BYU together, graduating on the same day.
Now I look back and see why Heavenly Father initially said no—or really, “not yet”—to my fervent prayer about attending BYU. Although He said no to my desire at that particular time, He was actually saying yes to a much more important desire. As a young girl, I had often prayed that my future husband and I would find each other when the time was right. We might have met at BYU, but I am convinced that, as part of a greater plan, Jonas and I needed to find each other in Sweden. Perhaps many of Heavenly Father’s “no” answers to our prayers are integral parts of his “yes” answers to greater plans for our lives.

Years ago, I enjoyed being alone and deciding things for myself. I was an introvert and I liked it that way. I considered the people around me to be merely associates because I preferred being alone.
Then one day some family members and I were driving home, and we ended up in a freak accident. After a visit to the hospital for some stitches and X-rays, we headed home. Although our car was totaled, we were grateful to only have minor cuts and bruises.
A couple of weeks later, after trying my hardest to remember how the accident happened, I started thinking. This was my fault. I must have done something wrong. I must have forgotten to do something. My mind was inundated with possibilities like, what if I had died? Was I really ready to leave this world? What if my family had died? Yes, they were sealed together, but I wasn’t sealed to them, what would happen then? I was comforted with the knowledge of our Heavenly Father’s plan of eternal families.
I realized it didn’t necessarily mean I had done something wrong. It just meant that I was looking at the picture the wrong way. I needed to look more closely at my life and recognize the fact that I am still here for a reason. This accident confirmed my love for my family because if I were asked to give my life, I would have easily replied, “Yes, for all my family.”
Why do I feel so strongly? Because I believe in families, that they transcend this life. I understand their worth, as well as my worth in their lives on earth and throughout eternity.
Years later, am I now an extrovert? Absolutely not. Some days, some conversations, some hugs, are better than others. I’m still a work in progress. However, one thing remains the same.
What I believe in is what I want—an eternal family. President Russell M. Nelson shared, “Our family is the focus of our greatest work and joy in this life; so, will it be throughout all eternity.”1 An end result that displays our Savior’s love for us.

In the Personal Progress book, one of the requirements is to get closer to a family member and write kind letters to them for two weeks. I was having a hard time getting along with my brother, so I decided to give it a try. In the first note that I sent, I explained to him that I didn’t like the way we were treating each other and that I would like to work harder on trying to be nicer to one another. Right after the first note I sent, I found a note from my brother explaining that he felt like that too. After that our friendship got a whole lot better, just from a simple loving note.
M’Lynn Y., 13, Idaho

When Enoch LaVell Manwaring served as a building missionary in Tonga in 1957, he took some of the building missionaries to the island of ‘Uiha to build a chapel. A small, elderly lady named Vaikato insisted upon helping with the construction, although she was believed to be more than one hundred years old. The missionaries tried to persuade her not to carry heavy bricks and lift buckets, but she refused to quit helping them.
As the work progressed on the building, some of the Tongan building missionaries approached Brother Manwaring and asked if he had talked to Vaikato about the construction plans. He told them no, and was surprised when they told him that Vaikato already knew what the chapel would look like:
The men told me that she was telling all of the workers just where the classrooms would be, where the pulpit would stand, and just how the chapel would look when it was finished. It was amazing what she knew.
I learned through an interpreter that twenty years before the building program began in the South Pacific, she had received a blessing from Elder George Albert Smith, who was visiting the Tongan islands. In the blessing, he told her that if she would be faithful, she would live to see a beautiful chapel erected on her island—and she envisioned it perfectly while he spoke.

Amanda pulled the silky ribbon around the loop and tightened the pretty bow. "There you go, Emma," she said.
"Thanks!" Emma said as she looked over her shoulder, trying to see the bow on the back of her dress. "It’s hard for me to tie it backwards."
"That’s what big sisters are for," Amanda said. She picked up her scriptures and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. It was Sunday, and the family was busy getting ready for church.
On her way to the kitchen, Amanda found Clara sitting on the floor. Clara was frowning. Her shoes were on the wrong feet.
"Let me help you with your shoes, Clara," Amanda said.
She undid the straps of Clara’s shoes, put them on the right feet, and tightened the straps. Clara stood up and marched around happily. "Thanks, Amanda!" she said.
Amanda smiled. "That’s what big sisters are for," she said.
In the kitchen, Amanda found Megan and Rachel sitting at the table.
"We’re hungry," Megan said. "Where are Mom and Dad?"
"Mom is taking care of the baby, and Dad is at a meeting at church," Amanda said. "I’ll help you get breakfast."
Amanda poured cereal and milk into two bowls and put two slices of bread in the toaster. The toaster ticked as Megan slurped her milk and Rachel listened to the crackling cereal. When the toast popped up, Amanda spread on butter and strawberry jam. She put the toast on two plates and handed them to her sisters.
"Thanks, Amanda!" they said.
"That’s what big sisters are for," Amanda said, and she put another piece of bread in the toaster for herself.
A few minutes later, Mom walked into the kitchen carrying baby Ruby. When Mom saw the girls eating breakfast, she smiled gratefully at Amanda.
"Thank you, Amanda," Mom said. "You’re such a big help to me and your younger sisters. You’re a great example for them—even little Ruby!"
Ruby blinked and smiled at her oldest sister.
At church, Amanda sat quietly with her family. When the organ started playing the opening hymn, Amanda opened a hymnbook. She loved singing the hymns in sacrament meeting.
"‘Come, follow me,’ the Savior said," she sang. "Then let us in his footsteps tread."
Amanda looked down the row at her sisters and saw that they were watching her. Then they opened their hymnbooks and began to sing. Megan and Rachel shared a book while Emma pointed out the words to Clara.
A warm feeling grew inside Amanda. She was glad she could serve her family by helping her younger sisters. She promised herself that she would always try to be helpful and to be a good example for them. After all, that’s what big sisters are for!

Band class was ending. Miss Strand, my teacher, said, “Remember that chair tests are tomorrow.”
Miss Strand used chair tests to decide which order we sat in. Each band member played for the whole class, and the one who played each instrument the best sat “first chair” for that instrument.
But I wasn’t too worried. I had been first chair in the clarinets ever since I started playing last year. I had a perfect record.
“Are you nervous?” my friend Jason asked me. Jason had started learning the clarinet at the same time I had. He had always been second chair.
“Not really,” I answered.
“I’m going to go home and practice,” he said. “I’m not ready for the test yet.”
I don’t need to practice, I thought as we packed up our instruments. I’ve been first chair all year.
After school I did my homework and played with my friends. I didn’t even think about the test.
Before I knew it, I was in class the next day and Miss Strand was saying, “Let’s start the chair tests with the clarinets.”
I was a little nervous as I played—I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. But when I finished, I was sure that I would be first chair again.
When all of the clarinet players had finished, Miss Strand announced the test results.
“First chair: Jason. Second chair: Darcie …” Miss Strand continued, but I had stopped listening. I was second chair! I looked up at her in shock, and I realized she was waiting for me to move.
Slowly I switched chairs with Jason. I felt my face turning red, and I blinked hard to keep my tears back. My perfect record was gone!
“You did a good job,” Jason said. I just nodded. If I spoke, I was afraid I would burst into tears.
When I got home from school, I ran straight to my room and cried.
Mom came in and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Jason got first chair today,” I sobbed. “How am I supposed to be the best clarinet player now?”
Mom hugged me. “Did you practice last night?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Mom looked at me and asked, “Do you think you would have played better if you had practiced?”
I nodded. Mom was right. I hadn’t practiced, but Jason had. He had been more prepared for the test.
Mom continued, “Even if you had practiced hard and still gotten second chair, that would be OK. Being in band is not about being the best; it’s about doing your best. You shouldn’t worry if you’re doing the best you can do.”
The next day Miss Strand started class by saying, “I want you all to know that I’m proud of you. You are all working hard so that our band can play beautiful music. Our band sounds great when everyone works hard together.”
Miss Strand’s words made me feel a little better about sitting second chair. I should want all the band members to do their best so the band can keep getting better and better, I thought.
I smiled at Jason. He looked happy to be first chair. I realized that I really wanted him to play well too.
It was OK if I was a not-so-perfect clarinetist. It didn’t matter where I sat as long as I was doing my best.

Young women, let your days begin and end with prayer. Read from your scriptures every day. When you pray and talk with your Heavenly Father, when you let him communicate with you through the scriptures and through his Spirit, you will find answers to your prayers—just as Dawn did.
When Dawn’s parents received a mission call to Japan, she was given the choice of going with them or staying behind. Going meant leaving her friends, missing her senior year in high school, and, in general, changing many of her future plans. The decision seemed too hard to make. She said, “I spent a lot of time crying and wondering why this should be happening to me.”
She fasted and prayed about the decision. It seemed coincidental that they were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary and were talking about Lehi’s family. In the past she had wondered why Laman and Lemuel had such a hard time choosing the right. It bothered her that they were the older brothers and didn’t set a good example. She began to liken herself to the scriptures. She was the oldest child in the family, and going to Japan was like going into the wilderness for her. She would have to leave a lot of important things behind. She said, “I didn’t want to be a Laman or Lemuel. I wanted to obey my Father in Heaven and do his will.” She knew her decision was right when she told her parents she would love to go to Japan with them and it felt so good.
At the farewell, Dawn told her friends how much she loved them and would miss them, then said, “I realize that the greatest friend I have is Jesus Christ. I feel of his love every day.”

As I stood in the family circle above the baptismal font, I watched our little grandson Clayton walk timidly down the steps with his daddy. Raising his arm to the square, his father said the baptismal prayer, then buried him in the water that sloshed and splashed around them.
After the last song had been sung and the closing prayer said, the families of the newly baptized children reverently left the meetinghouse. Later as we celebrated the occasion, one of the children looked up from his ice cream and asked, “Grandma, were you baptized in shiny blue water?”
“No,” I chuckled. “When I was baptized, we didn’t sit in a room with drapes and carpets with soft music and inspirational talks. No one wore white clothes and there were no relatives standing above a tile font.”
“Tell us about it, Grandma,” the children pleaded. And so I told them my story.
Well, you see, Hurricane was just a pioneer town in Southern Utah when I was little. We planned for me to be baptized in the Hurricane Canal on my birthday. I was so excited I could hardly wait. And then, just four days before my birthday, the canal broke.
The farmers were frantic. Peach orchards and hayfields were dry. Every man in town went up the river with his pick and shovel to help fix the break, but it was a bad one. The day before my birthday, I climbed the slope to the canal, hoping to see just one trickle of water. Instead, the hot, dry winds had caked and cracked the mud in the bottom, curling it up into little clay dishes. “Oh mamma, what shall we do?” I asked. “How can I be baptized when the canal is dry?”
“You can always go to the hot sulphur springs, like your sisters did,” she suggested.
“But their birthdays were in winter. We’d scald in July!”
Mama knew better than to suggest postponing the date. It was family tradition for each of us to be baptized on our eighth birthday.
“Let’s see what other choices you have,” Mama said. “Come with me.”
The cow’s watering trough was just outside the corral under the apricot tree, with a hole in the fence for the cows to poke their heads through.
“You could be baptized here,” she said. I looked at the long strings of floating green moss and shuddered. “You can scrub the trough with the broom and fill it with fresh water from the cistern.”
“But Mama …” I wailed.
“If being sorry would fix the canal, the water would be running in it now,” she said, cradling me in her comforting arms.
I had heard Uncle Ren say that the canal might be mended by sundown, so just before dark, I climbed the bank, hoping to see the frothy head of the stream. But the cracked clay was only curled deeper. Heavy of heart, I trudged home and plopped down on my bed in the peach orchard, where we slept in the summertime. Looking up at the evening sky I watched the first stars appear. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “help the men get the water in the canal by tomorrow.”
I wasn’t surprised when a short time later I heard a little splash of water coming through the headgate high on the bank above our house. I sat on my heels and listened. The sound grew until it was the full-grown tumble of water, splashing over the rocks and, finally, rippling through the ditch past our place. The canal had been fixed before sundown, but the water had miles to race before reaching town.
“Oh thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. Then I hugged my pillow and drifted to sleep, lulled by the merry music of laughing, tumbling water.
By the next afternoon, all of the debris and froth from the new stream had washed itself on through the canal and the water ran placid and smooth. I put on my clean white nightgown and Uncle Ren Spendlove came in his faded bib overalls. Mama walked to the canal with us. Sitting in the shade of the willows along the bank were my playmates and cousins, waiting. Uncle Ren stepped down the slick muddy side into the water then, reaching up, gave me a hand. Ripples of light danced on the stream, and a few willow leaves glided like canoes through the mottled shade. The wind held its breath as Uncle Ren said the baptismal prayer. I felt the rush of water in my ears, and he brought me up blubbering. He held onto me until I had caught my breath. Then I noticed everyone watching and smiling at me and I felt wonderful and loved.
“Mama, I’m baptized!” I exclaimed. Reaching for my hands, she pulled me up beside her. She had said that baptism was a sacred ordinance, and when she hugged me, dripping wet as I was, I knew it was true.

Jimmy Stewart stars in “Mr. Krueger’s Christmas” this Christmas season, a television special produced by the Church and featuring the Tabernacle Choir. The half-hour program is directed by Kieth Merrill, the Mormon movie director who won an Oscar for “The Great American Cowboy.” Jimmy Stewart plays Mr. Kreuger, a widowed custodian preparing to spend a lonely Christmas by himself until he’s interrupted by Yuletide carolers.

“What made it impossible for me not to do this program was that I would have the privilege of directing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” said Mr. Stewart. “I’ve been an absolutely devoted fan of the Tabernacle Choir for many, many years. This is one of the greatest honors I’ve ever had.” To find out how Mr. Kreuger’s Christmas turns out, check your local television listings for December.

As a missionary in Chile, I learned that investigators’ conversion is greatly helped by the involvement of ward members. My companions and I found out quickly that ward members were essential in reactivation and in keeping recent converts active.
In one area, we had been working with a family for many months. They had once been very strong in the Church but had fallen away from activity. The family didn’t feel as though the ward members cared whether or not they attended Church or other activities. As missionaries, we struggled to get the members excited about reactivation. They were unwilling to do even simple things like ask the family to sit with them at church, visit them, or invite them to activities.
In another area, however, the ward members seemed as excited about missionary work as the missionaries. The members were so involved and were always willing to help us find and keep investigators. After the members met our investigators, they practically took over. They invited the investigators or less-active members to every activity and offered to pick them up for church. Many times investigators would tell us how welcome they felt and how they didn’t feel like just another number because the members took such a personal interest in them.
I learned how important it is that bonds of fellowship in the gospel be formed between ward members. As missionaries, we come and go. But the association with ward members lasts much longer.

1 Eight-year-old Lou had mixed feelings. She was excited about her family moving to Arizona, but a little twinge of worry gnawed at her. She knew that only essential items could be taken in their covered wagons.
Will Annabelle be considered essential? she wondered. Will there be room for her?
2 Annabelle was a beautiful china doll, a special birthday gift that still filled Lou with wonder whenever she took Annabelle down from her place on Mama’s bureau, where the doll was safely out of the reach of her little brothers.
3 Lou asked her father if there would be room for Annabelle in the covered wagon. He promised to find a special place for her.
4 As the covered wagon was loaded, Lou kept a careful watch. When everything else was put into it, Lou could not see a safe place left for her doll.
5 The night before the start of their journey, Lou and her brothers took their last baths in their old home. Very little was left in their house; everything had been either packed in the wagon or given away to friends.
6 That night the family slept in beds made up on top of boxes in the covered wagon.
7 The next morning as they were getting ready to leave, Papa showed Lou a little hammock hanging from one of the wagon bows. Annabelle was inside. Papa had found a place where Annabelle could ride up high, out of the reach of her brothers and safe from bumps and jolts.
8 All during the long weeks of travel, Annabelle left her hammock only when Lou held her. When they arrived in Arizona, Annabelle was still with them, a treasured friend for Lou.

As a child, I can remember asking why our Church was not a member of the Council of Churches, and why all the faiths could not work together? I never received a satisfactory answer. When I married my Northern Irish husband, we visited family during the troubles and heard some prejudices firsthand.
I keenly felt the need for talking, understanding, and compassion. After so much heartache, it was only the peace talks, not the bombs, that eventually brought the country to rest.