Gospel Story Finder

“But, Mom! I don’t want to go!” There was no way she’d ever convince me. “Can you imagine what three days without showers or my cell phone will do to me? I’ll die!”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” My mother dismissed my worries like they were nothing. “It’ll be a good experience for you.” That was the end of it; my fate had been decided. I moaned and groaned for an entire month, but that didn’t change anything. I still had to go on pioneer trek with the youth in my ward.
We were scheduled for three days of wandering through what seemed a Wyoming wasteland, with only the “bare necessities” packed into a one-gallon paint bucket. I couldn’t believe other people were excited to go on a trip like this. I tried every loophole I could find to get out of going. All I got was a lecture on the “importance of my ancestors and understanding how they lived.” Personally, I appreciated the pioneers. I really did. But why did that mean going on trek? Couldn’t I appreciate them from the comfort of my own home?
The last week in June found me awake at four in the morning to help load the cars and drive across endless miles of desert for six hours into the Wyoming wilderness to reenact part of the early pioneers’ migration westward. Grumbling, I took my gallon bucket and sat sullenly with my other muttering friends.
Our leaders cheerily greeted us with a smile and handed everyone pieces of paper. Looking down, I saw a mournful face in a very bad, very old photograph on a paper. Next to the small picture was the story of Bodil Mortinsen. She had traveled with the Willie Handcart Company in October of 1856. I had been assigned Bodil’s name. I folded up Bodil’s biography and stuck it in my pocket.
“The handcarts are here!” someone called out. “Everybody get your buckets!”
I lifted my bucket into a handcart and waited for more instructions. I lost count of the number of times we were lectured on leaving the snakes alone. The phrase “DON’T GO OFF THE TRAIL” was engraved into our brains over and over again.
“And … ,” the voice of our tour guide wavered in the hot afternoon sun, “please remember why you’re here.” What could he mean by that? I knew why I was here. I was here because my parents had told me to come here. I was here because the pioneers had traveled this exact same road and apparently I had to too. I reached into my pocket and felt Bodil Mortinsen still there, limp from hours in the heat from my jeans.
“Off we go!” Brother Boulter called. He took hold of the first handcart, and moving with the methodical lethargy of a herd of cattle, the procession of teenage pioneers set off.
Nearly 48 hours later, I pushed my handcart from behind, completely exhausted. The sun hung high in the desert afternoon. It pulsed on my back, and I felt sweat trickling down my face. I felt the gritty texture of dirt mixed with the salty-sweet taste of sweat in my mouth but, surprisingly enough, didn’t complain. Suddenly, the caravan halted, and I wearily looked up. Brother Boulter had stopped at the opening of Martin’s Cove.
“We’re leaving the carts here,” he called out in a strained, hoarse voice. “Just bring your canteens and follow me.” We were led up a steep hill and came to several benches set up at the top of the mound. Gratefully, we dropped down and rested in the scorching midday sun.
“You are here,” Brother Boulter stated after a small pause, “to gain an understanding of what your ancestors went through. The Martin Handcart Company passed through this cove over 100 years ago. They suffered frostbite and scurvy and even gave their lives so that you could live in a better place. We are so proud that you have come with such a great attitude.” My friends and I exchanged sheepish looks. “You all have around half an hour to walk through the cove and see where the Martin Company took refuge from the blizzard that killed 50 people.”
A quiet stillness overtook us as we meandered along the trail. I imagined the pioneers a century ago trying to take shelter beneath their handcarts. I tried to imagine the feeling of freezing out here in the Wyoming wilderness, and my fingers became cold in the summer sun as I felt a nearness to my ancestors. Walking out of the cove, we took up our handcarts again. The story of Bodil Mortinsen was still in my pocket, growing steadily more limp.
We returned to Rocky Ridge. Here, the Willie Handcart Company had suffered a similar fate to that of the Martin Handcart Company until the rescue party from Salt Lake City found them. This time, the air hung heavy with rain, and we could smell the distant scent of wet sagebrush and sand.
Rocky Ridge was a small gully nestled between two grassy hills and cut in the middle by a quiet brook. A large boulder stood next to the trail with one word carved into it: “REMEMBER.”
“There,” Brother Boulter said, again at the front of our group and motioning to a point ahead of us, “is where the Willie Company buried their dead.”
Glancing up the trail, I saw two piles of rocks waiting at the crest of the hill. These graves were little more than two plots marked by jagged stones over their tops. The graves had been poorly dug, as it was wintertime when the Willie Company was here. The ground had been too frozen to make deep graves, and the pioneers had covered them with rocks to keep the dozen bodies from being destroyed by wild animals.
We stood there in silence. Suddenly, I realized that I had not read Bodil Mortinsen’s story. I carefully pulled out the wilted paper and looked again at the mournful black-and-white face. I read her story. I stood where she had stood and envisioned her grieving over a lost parent or brother or friend. At the bottom of the page, I read:
“Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
“Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death leaning against the wheel of their handcart, clutching sagebrush” (President James E. Faust [1920–2007], Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “A Priceless Heritage,” Ensign, Nov. 1992, 84–85).
I had imagined Bodil standing here, perhaps mourning the loss of a family member. Now I realized that she hadn’t stood here at all. She was buried here. Tears pricked at my eyes. A nine-year-old girl was buried here, and her family had been required to leave and move on. They walked and walked until they reached the Salt Lake Valley. After starving, freezing, and suffering, they had not been afraid to continue on. If they could keep walking, surely I could too.
These pioneers had been real people. Old men, young men, widows, mothers, young girls just like me. They had suffered and traveled away from everything they knew to live in a better place. I lived in that place. I had lived in a good place all of my life because of my pioneer ancestors. They were not just people who lived a long time ago, and I was not here just to see what they had done. They were my people, and I was here, standing in front of the graves at Rocky Ridge, to get to know them.
I went home after that adventure with a newfound respect and appreciation for my heritage. I can’t ever forget how it felt to stand at those graves. The boulder said “REMEMBER,” and I will forevermore.

Soon after my baptism, people in my ward began asking me how I felt about serving a mission. To be honest, I didn’t know exactly what to say. The idea of leaving my family and school to serve a mission seemed absurd.
Then one day I started thinking about my conversion. I remembered the missionaries who had taught me, who had patiently answered my questions and helped me understand the gospel. I realized that without their help, I never would have discovered the true Church. As soon as I made that realization, the desire to serve blossomed in my heart. I could feel the Spirit telling me that I should serve a full-time mission.

Now let me close by personalizing this a little. On January 12, 1992, Jody Jorgensen Nichols, a neighbor of ours and one of the best friends of our daughter, Jani, left the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, and flew to Helsinki, Finland, with two elders and two other sisters to serve in the Finland Helsinki East Mission. All had been studying Russian and were preparing to preach to the Russian people. At that point there was no mission in Russia, but Gary Browning, president of the Finland Helsinki East Mission, was responsible for the members and missionaries in the former Soviet Union. Our good friends Gerald and Peggy Jorgensen, Jody’s parents, were a little apprehensive about sending Jody off to Russia. In fact, Peggy told me that she even wondered if she would ever see Jody again. Their understanding was that Jody would live in Helsinki but travel back and forth to different spots in Russia to teach the people.

When Jody arrived in Helsinki, she and her group were notified that they would all leave for Saint Petersburg the next day. However, one would continue on alone to Moscow. Little did they know what was going to be announced that weekend. The next morning, as they prepared to leave, Jody was told that she would be the lone missionary continuing on to Moscow. She sat down and wrote a short note to her parents explaining that she was the only missionary in her group of five who would travel on to Moscow. On Thursday, January 16, Jody arrived in Moscow, where she met up with her companion and began to work with a small group in the Church. At that time there was one main branch and three small groups in Moscow, all clustered around metro stops. On Saturday, Jody attended a zone conference where it was announced that two new missions were being created: the Russia Saint Petersburg and Russia Moscow Missions. So now she knew that she would be working in Russia for the remainder of her mission. Only a few days later, on Monday, her letter from Helsinki arrived in Orem, and the reality of the transfer began to set in for Gerald and Peggy. Would Peggy’s premonition come true? Needless to say, Monday was a very difficult day. All they knew was that Jody was leaving her companions behind and traveling alone to Moscow to begin her work.

At the same time, not knowing that Jody had left the MTC, I was preparing for a trip to Moscow. I had been invited to present a paper at a conference being hosted by Moscow State University, and I was having a difficult time getting a visa. In fact, I nearly canceled my trip because I knew that I would miss the plenary session where I was to present my paper. But I had my tickets, and I didn’t want to let down my host. So in the Dulles Airport I met a courier with my visa and then headed off to Moscow about the same time Jody was on the train leaving Helsinki. I knew I would be there on Sunday, so I asked my nonmember friend, Andrei Markov—then the vice dean of the College of Economics at Moscow State University—if he could find an LDS branch for me to attend. On Sunday, only a few days after Jody arrived in Moscow, I had a taxi take me to the building close to the university metro stop where the Church group was meeting. I was early—one of the few times that has happened in my life—so I sat in the cold foyer of the building and waited for the members to arrive. Who was one of the first people to walk through the door? Jody Jorgensen. We were both shocked. I told her to sit down during church and write a letter to her parents. And then it was so fun to listen to Jody bear her testimony in Russian, having only been in the country a few days. She had prepared herself well.

The next day I flew home. That happened to be the day that Gerald and Peggy received Jody’s letter from Helsinki. When I arrived home about 10 p.m. or so, I called Gerald to tell him that I had just come from Moscow, where I had gone to church with Jody, and that I had a letter for them. Needless to say, he came right over. Peggy has since told me that when they got my call that Monday night, she was lying in bed clutching her scriptures, worried to death about Jody. Once she got the letter I brought, she felt a feeling of peace come over her that never left her for the rest of Jody’s mission. She knew that everything would be all right.

Does the Lord care about these things? Of course he does. Was it a coincidence that I decided to go to Moscow, even though I missed part of the conference? Was it a coincidence that Jody and I ended up in the same building at the same time? Of course not. Sometimes, if we step back, we can see the Lord’s hand in his work.

There are special weeks for secretaries, pickles, and Boy Scouts among other things, so why not an Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women week?
That was the question posed by youth leaders of the Ogden 49th Ward to adult leaders in the bishop’s youth committee meeting. The answer they received was, “Why not? Now what will you do?”
To open the week a fireside was held on Sunday evening. A local seminary teacher was the featured speaker, and the group enjoyed homemade cookies and punch.
The youths spent Monday with their families, and parents were encouraged to have the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women programs as the theme for family home evening.
Tuesday brought a carnival featuring a dart game, a dunking machine, a water-filled balloon toss, and a balloon bust.
On Wednesday the youth met at the church and cooked a potluck dinner.
On Thursday there were softball games and a weenie roast. In addition, nearly 50 people enjoyed volleyball and a marshmallow roast that evening.
A service project began on Friday and lasted well into Saturday. An elderly couple in the ward had put their home up for sale, and the youth of the ward volunteered to paint it for them. The house was over 100 years old, and the wife had been born there 82 years ago on land once owned by Brigham Young. The house was scraped, washed, and painted by Saturday afternoon.
That evening the successful week was climaxed with a campfire in Ogden Canyon.
The ward plans to make “Busy Week” an annual affair. They received additional support from the Ogden Standard-Examiner, which said the city “would be a better place in which to live if more residents of all ages would take pride in the appearance of their houses, yards and out-buildings. The 49th Ward MIA young people have shown the way.”

Nineteen-year-old Emily Rowland takes a deep breath. The task ahead of her seems nearly impossible. A trickle of sweat slowly makes its way down her face to drip off her chin, and her face becomes flushed, but she won’t give up.
Emily knows she must persevere, not only for herself, but for others who will follow. Her heart pounds and her muscles beg her to stop, but she knows it will be worth it.
This is Relief Society Homemaking meeting.
Of course, it’s not always this much of an ordeal—but this particular Homemaking night finds Emily and some of the other women in her ward—the University Ward near the University of Nevada at Las Vegas—working to improve their health and fitness, and that means working up a sweat doing aerobics. Other times Homemaking might mean learning about how to manage finances (not a bad skill for a college freshman like Emily), or how to look for a job, or maybe even how to change a flat tire.
What, no recipes, no baby quilts?
“Sure, cooking and sewing are important too,” says Emily. “It always amazes me how well Relief Society can adjust to individual needs. It’s a lot of fun.”
Emily and two of her friends, Aubrey VanDrimmelen and Charlotte Ballard, say that leaving Young Women behind was hard, and maybe even a little frightening. But it’s also something they all agree it was time to do.
“I really loved Young Women,” says Charlotte. “And Relief Society is different from Young Women. For one thing, there are a lot of people who are older than you. But after you’ve gone a few times, you realize how nice everyone is, how much they want to be your friend.”
Emily points out that going from Young Women to Relief Society happens at a time when most girls are headed off to college, entering the work force, preparing for missions, or getting married.
“Those are big changes,” she says. “Relief Society is a big change, too, but it helps you cope with all the other new things in life.”
Part of making the change into Relief Society means learning new skills. Probably one of the most important things all three girls learned right away was how to be a good visiting teacher—something none of them had done before.
“The first time I went visiting teaching, I had no clue what I was doing,” says Aubrey. “It was sort of hard to think of things to say, but now I really like it. It’s great to get to know people and help them out.”
Unlike some student wards, the University Ward in Las Vegas has a mix of single and married people. A few couples even have children, so the younger women in the ward have to step out of their comfort zone to help the others.
Emily and her partner (who is also 19) go visiting teaching to the married, has-a-master’s-degree, has-a-baby Relief Society president (gulp). But, as with most other things, Emily takes it in stride and has even learned to enjoy it.
“Getting the call to be her visiting teacher was a little intimidating, I have to admit,” she says. “Since I didn’t know what it was like to be married or have a baby, I just had to ask her. Since I was forced to ask a lot of questions, I’ve come to know more about her. I really admire her, and I have learned so much from being her visiting teacher. And I hope maybe she’s learned a little something from me.”
“Last week, our lesson on Sunday was titled ‘Aging Is Part of God’s Plan,’” says Aubrey. “I looked at that and thought, How on earth is that going to apply to someone like me? I mean, no one in my ward is exactly getting old.”
Even though there is only one lesson in the Relief Society curriculum about aging, there are lots of lessons on family and social relationships. Does that mean that someone who is young and single can’t get anything from them?
“No way!” says Emily, who serves as a Spiritual Living teacher in her ward. “I work on my lesson all week, reading it so many times I practically know it by heart. Every lesson has something that is valuable, whether you’re 19, 29, or 79.”
Charlotte says that the age differences in Relief Society actually add to her experience.
“You can always learn things from people who are older than you,” she says. “You may not need to know those things right at the moment you learn them, but lots of them come in handy later on. There’s always a great spirit in Relief Society because people share their own experiences.”
Of course, one thing that doesn’t change whether you’re in Young Women or Relief Society is the chance to learn about the Savior and how to become more like him.
“I know with a surety that my Savior lives,” says Emily. “Sometimes you start to doubt things, but if you listen to the lessons in Relief Society you learn and grow so much because you’re doing the right thing. Relief Society helps you stay close to the gospel.”
And along with that closeness to the Savior and the gospel come a closeness and friendship with each other that the girls say is hard to duplicate anywhere else.
“There’s a lot of love in our Relief Society,” says Charlotte. “You can tell when you’re there that people are willing to help each other. There are opportunities to serve and teach everywhere.”
This year, young women all over the Church will be taking the plunge into Relief Society. With a little less than a year of Relief Society under their belts, Emily, Aubrey, and Charlotte know what that initial plunge feels like: exciting, scary, and possibly (for the newcomer) a little intimidating. They also know what it feels like to keep coming: rewarding, uplifting, and a smooth transition to a lot of fun, where age differences don’t matter much.
“Everyone in Relief Society wants you to know you are accepted and to make you feel good about being there. What could be better?” says Emily.
Aubrey agrees.
“It’s a little like reading the scriptures,” she says. “Every time you go, you learn something different. And the longer you do it, the more you learn.”
Friendship, love, skill training, and spiritual growth—it’s a good deal no matter what age you are and no matter what your needs are. And who knows? The first time you go, they might even serve a delicious, fancy dessert—with the recipe, of course. After all, this is Relief Society.
Feeling left out because there’s not a student or singles’ ward in your area? Well, whether you live hundreds of miles away from the nearest Church member your age, or just a few minutes from Church headquarters, your home ward is still a great place for you to be—including Relief Society!
Christy Pimper, another 19-year-old college student from Las Vegas, has chosen to attend her home ward. Here are some of her tips on finding a way to fit in:
Mentally prepare to make the move. “I really liked Young Women, but when I turned 18, I felt ready to leave. I was older than everyone and my needs were different. When it’s time to move on, don’t hesitate!”
Take the opportunity to develop your testimony. “The lessons in Relief Society are great. You learn things you never knew before, and you understand things you’ve known all your life much better than before.”
Make friends. “Even though everyone in my ward is older than me, I don’t feel left out. All the women go out of their way to make me feel welcome.”
Keep an open mind. “Relief Society is different from Young Women, but unless you give it a try, you’ll never really know for yourself what it’s like.”

My primary teacher, LaNae Poulter did the same thing. She told me after putting her arm around me, “You can do this because I’ll help you”. She did this while helping me give a talk in primary. I did it! She gave me confidence. She didn't just help me give a talk—she helped me believe I could. She is now retired from BYU-Idaho, but she did the same things when she was serving here on this campus in the scheduling office and in many other areas on campus. I see this same principle being done by my co-workers, faculty, administration, staff and students all over campus.

In addition to the loving care I received from my mother, I received similar nurturing from my big sister, who was my mentor and protector.

When I was old enough to enter kindergarten, I was worried sick. I had watched my sister do her homework and was concerned by the fact that I didn’t know how to read or do arithmetic. The night before school started, my apprehension must have shown, because she came into the bedroom and started talking to me about school. I explained my concerns, and she immediately began to allay my fears. She told me about recess. I could handle that. Then she explained that I would be taught to read one word at a time, and she assured me that I was smart and wouldn’t have any trouble.

Now, how would a brother handle a situation like that?

“Wow, you’re in big trouble! You may never graduate from kindergarten. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If you will give me your allowance, I’ll help you.”

As I mentioned earlier, men and women are different.

A broad education is a crucial part of the Olive Leaf. So, in light of the revealed importance of general education, I want to tell you a funny family story that illustrates how passionate John is about general education. It happened when he spoke with our daughter who was preparing to start college. She casually mentioned that she wanted to “get her GEs out of the way.”

John just about went through the roof. He said, “What do you mean ‘get your GEs out of the way’?! You shouldn’t think of college as something you just ‘go through’ for a degree; college needs to go through you.” He went on to say that too often students think of general education as something someone else requires them to do, like soldiers in World War II who were told to pass down a line of people giving them medical shots. They didn’t know why. The shots were just something to be endured, something someone else said was good for them. And that’s how people often experience general education—as something imposed by others, something to get out of the way.

John: That story is a bit embarrassing. My response may have been a little over the top.36 But I actually still feel the same way about that principle, which in fact applies not just to education but to exaltation.37

We often talk about teaching our children from the scriptures, but how do we do that?
Several years ago I was teaching our young son about the life and experiences of the brother of Jared. Although the story was very interesting, he was not engaged. I then asked what the story meant to him personally. It means so much when we ask our children, “What does it mean to you?” He said, “You know, it’s not that different from what Joseph Smith did in the grove when he prayed and got an answer.”
I said, “You’re about Joseph’s age. Do you think a prayer like his would be helpful to you?” Suddenly we weren’t talking about a long-ago story in a faraway land. We were talking about our son—about his life, his needs, and the way prayer could help him.

Last year marked the Oregon Trail’s 150th anniversary, and to celebrate, young women from the Unity First Ward, Burley Idaho Stake, decided to try a four-day, authentic pioneer trek along the trail that runs close to their homes.
They donned pioneer skirts and bonnets and ditched modern conveniences like makeup for the 32-mile trek. They camped out, pressed their own fresh cider, made “johnny cakes,” and listened to numerous stories about pioneer experiences along the way. Every night two girls kept watch over the horses, camp, and fire.
On the last day, as they tromped into Oakley, Idaho, they noticed a man standing on the balcony of one of the original pioneer homes. As they got closer, they realized it was Elder David B. Haight. He greeted the tired group and invited them into his ancestral home, recounting the history of the area, and bearing his testimony that “the gospel is the hope of the world.” By the time the trek was through, the young women had learned more about hope than they’d ever dreamed.

“Savannah, have you thought about helping build the battery-powered car?” Mr. Murdock asked. “You could compete in the engineering fair.”
Savannah looked at her science teacher. She never thought she was very good at science, but maybe it would be fun to join the team building the car.
“Do you think I’d be good at it?” Savannah asked.
Mr. Murdock smiled. “Well, I can tell that you are sharp and have a unique way of looking at things,” he said. “That’s just what the team needs! Why don’t you come to the team meeting today?”
Savannah promised to think about it.
During lunch Savannah told her friends about Mr. Murdock’s suggestion.
“Do you really want to do that?” Amber asked. “It sounds pretty boring.”
“I don’t know,” Savannah said. “My grandpa’s an engineer, and I think it’s interesting.”
“It’ll just be more schoolwork for you to do,” Tess said.
Amber nodded. “Totally. Hey, why don’t you come downtown with us after school? My mom’s driving us.”
“No thanks,” Savannah said. “The team meeting is after school, and I want to go.”
Savannah knew her friends didn’t understand why she would pick building a car over shopping, but she wanted to try it.
After school Savannah went to Mr. Murdock’s classroom. During the team meeting, Savannah got more and more excited. Designing and building a car sounded really cool!
But as Savannah walked home, she remembered what Amber had said. What if it was boring? What if she got too busy with the car to see her friends? What if they stopped liking her?
“I really want to join the team,” Savannah told Mom that night. “But Amber and Tess think it will be boring.”
“Well, why do you want to join?” Mom asked.
Savannah thought for a minute. “I want to know how things work,” she said. “And maybe I want to be an engineer like Grandpa.”
“Those sound like good reasons to me,” Mom said.
They sounded like good reasons to Savannah too. Still, she worried about her friends.
“There will be lots of times when your friends say one thing but you think another,” Mom said. “It’s important to base your choices on what you feel is right.”
That night Savannah thought a lot. She asked Heavenly Father for help making her choice. Eventually she decided what she would do. She felt peaceful and excited.
The next day Savannah talked to Mr. Murdock. “I’ve decided to join the team,” she said.
“You’ll spend a lot of time here after school,” he said.
“I know. I’m looking forward to it.”
For the next month, the team met twice a week. Savannah volunteered to come up with a design for the car. After hours of drawing and throwing away ideas, she finally had one for the team to build. She loved working on this project! Even when she wasn’t working on it, she was still thinking about the car and how they could improve it.
The day of the fair, the car was ready. Savannah hadn’t been able to spend as much time with Amber and Tess, and it had been scary to try something new, but she was glad she had joined the team. Maybe it wasn’t the popular choice, but for Savannah, it was the right one. She imagined Jesus smiling at her. He hadn’t always made popular choices either, but they were always the right ones.
After testing more than 50 entries, the judges awarded Savannah’s team second place!
She couldn’t wait for next year’s fair. She already had a few ideas.

My two sisters, Sarah and Livie, and I were waiting for church to start when our neighbor told us that our friend Savannah had broken her leg skiing. We looked back and saw her sitting in a wheelchair. The next day we went to her house to see how she was doing. We visited her almost every day and found out that Savannah’s family didn’t have any insurance to pay for her medical bills. We decided to have a special box at our street Christmas party for people to make donations. My family and our neighbors really felt the spirit of Christmas because we helped Savannah.

A few years ago, I coached a boys’ soccer team. They were an amazing group of players—fast, agile, with the instinct of anticipating where the ball would or should go on the next kick. The players really clicked as a team. They breezed through the season with a perfect record, most of the games ending in lopsided scores.
One of my favorite players on the team was Matt. Matt was an exception to most of his teammates. He wasn’t as skilled or naturally athletic as they were, but he played with a lot of heart. He developed a knack for playing defense. Matt wasn’t a fast runner, but he had courage and the uncanny ability to get himself right in front of a player ready to shoot on goal. Matt stopped dozens of shots that season with almost every part of his body—feet, legs, stomach, chest, and, on one memorable shot, his face. Matt earned the nickname “The Wall” because it seemed like no opposing player could get the ball past him.
Matt had one dream for that season: he wanted to score a goal. Since he played defense, at the opposite end of the field from the opponents’ net, he had little chance to score.
The last game of the season came and our team raced out to a quick and comfortable lead. As the match wore down, I called Matt over to the sideline and told him to play forward for the remainder of the game, a position where he’d have a better chance to score. With a confidence that surprised me, I told him, “Whenever their goalie has the ball, plant yourself in front of the box. Be in the right place at the right time and you’ll get your goal today.”
A few minutes later, one of our players kicked the ball on goal. The other team’s goalkeeper stopped the shot, put the ball on the turf, and kicked the ball low and hard.
And Matt, true to his nature, got right in front of it.
The ball thudded into his chest and ricocheted past the shocked and flailing goalkeeper into the net. Matt’s teammates and their parents exploded in cheers.
It wasn’t pretty, but Matt got his goal. He couldn’t have been more excited if he’d scored in a World Cup match.
I bumped into Matt a while ago, and it didn’t take long for us to start reminiscing about his amazing goal. We both agreed that, while his goal was thrilling and something neither of us would ever forget, it was the lessons we learned about life that warm autumn day that mattered most.

Brad wants to be just like Nathan when it comes to serving in the Church, too. When they received the Aaronic Priesthood, Nathan started passing the sacrament. Brad also wanted to pass the sacrament, but the routes around the chapel didn’t allow enough room to maneuver his wheelchair.

Nathan worked with the bishop to change the routes. The new version assigned all of the front pews to Brad, which left plenty of room for his wheelchair. Then he and Brad started passing the sacrament together.

Listen to the kind of recreation the Saints held under the Prophet’s direction in Nauvoo. On February 20, 1843, a “woodcutting bee” was held at the Prophet’s home. Seventy brethren attended. They sawed, chopped, split, and piled up a large stack of wood in the yard, which served not only the Prophet’s family, but also the many persons they helped out. “The day was spent by them with much pleasantry, good humor, and feeling,” says the record. “A white oak log, measuring five feet four inches in diameter, was cut through with a cross-cut saw, in four-and-a-half minutes, by Hyrum Dayton and Brother John Tidwell.” This tree had been previously cut by the Prophet himself, and he had hauled it to the yard with his team.13

Matthew clamped his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear you!” He chanted it over and over to drown out his little brother’s whining.
“Yes, you can,” Peter said. “Why can’t I go with you?”
The trouble was, Peter always wanted to hang out with Matthew. Usually Matthew didn’t mind. But today he wanted to go to the park with just his friends. Peter could be such a pest!
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Matthew said between gritted teeth. “You’ve got your own friends.” Then he ran out of the house before Peter could follow him.
At first he felt a little bad about leaving his brother behind. But when he and his friends started playing soccer, he forgot all about Peter.
When he got home from the park, Matthew walked into his bedroom. He stopped cold in his tracks. He couldn’t believe it! One of his dinosaur models was scattered in pieces all over the floor. It was the T-rex, his favorite.
“Peter!” Matthew yelled. “What did you do?”
Dad stuck his head in the doorway. “What’s all the yelling about?”
All Matthew could do was point to the broken model. He was too angry to even speak. It had taken him hours to paint it and put it together.
Peter came to the bedroom door, eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop it. I just wanted to play with it. I tried to fix it. …”
“Get out of my room and don’t ever come in here again!” Matthew yelled.
Peter started to cry and ran down the hallway.
Matthew didn’t need to look at Dad to know what look he had on his face.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said at last. “But he deserved it! He shouldn’t have played with my dinosaur. And then he wrecked it.”
“It was wrong of him to play with it,” Dad said. “But I think he just wants to do the same stuff you do. You’re probably the most important person in the world to him.”
Matthew thought about that. He could picture the happy look Peter had when they played basketball together, even though Peter couldn’t dribble the ball that well. Matthew’s shoulders slumped. “I probably need to tell him I’m sorry for yelling at him.”
He found Peter curled up in his bed, the covers pulled up to his eyes. Matthew tugged at the covers. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Peter swiped tears off his cheek. “I’m sorry I wrecked your dinosaur,” he said in a muffled voice.
Matthew thought of all the hours he’d spent making the dinosaur perfect. He swallowed hard. “It’s OK,” he said. “Maybe we can fix it.”
Peter sat up. “You mean I can help you?”
Matthew nodded. “Sure.”
By the end of the afternoon, the dinosaur looked pretty good—even if one eye was a little crooked.
Matthew glued the last piece in place. “Not bad,” he said.
“Not bad,” Peter echoed.
Matthew studied the model and smiled. “Cool. He looks like he was in a fight but still came out on top.”
“Cool,” Peter said.
The next day Mrs. Garcia assigned the class to write about the most important person in their life. Matthew didn’t even have to think twice about who he would write about. His essay about Peter got an A. But that wasn’t as important as realizing how much Peter meant to him.

You may be a modern mighty woman of Israel in the face of great tragedy. One such modern mighty woman of Israel is your age. She served as a missionary with us in Guatemala. She just finished her graduate degree and will soon be getting married. During our service in Guatemala, she and her companion were kidnapped. Heavenly Father would not let me share that difficult and miraculous experience with you today. However, the Spirit does allow me to quote one of the first things she stated upon her safe release: “We taught them [meaning the kidnappers] all of the lessons.”

She recently had to face the loss of her father in a tragic accident. After the accident, but before his passing, she told my wife and me that she knew Heavenly Father had prepared her to face hard things. In a humble and committed manner, she indicated that she was prepared and would valiantly face what Heavenly Father asked of her. Of course she wanted her dad to survive, yet she knew she was prepared to accept the will of Heavenly Father. She taught her mission president what it means to be a modern mighty woman of Israel.

In 1843, the British author Charles Dickens wrote his classic story A Christmas Carol. It’s about an old man named Ebenezer Scrooge, who doesn’t care about anyone or anything as much as his money. To show just how miserable a person Scrooge is, Dickens portrays him as scoffing at Christmas and anyone who wants to celebrate it. Then, at Christmas, he’s visited during the night by spirits who show him his Christmases in the past, present, and future. These visions cause him to reflect on his life, on the state of his soul, as well as on his relationships with other people. He vows to change—and he does. The new, better Scrooge is happier and blesses others.

When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

I asked Janie first. She’s my baby-sitter. “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” she answered, returning to her book, “but I wish I had the blue dress in this catalog.”
It was a pretty dress.
“I’m saving my baby-sitting money to buy it,” she added.
I next asked Mom as she left for work, “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said, “but I wish the living room would be picked up and vacuumed. After work I must go by the dry cleaners, so I’ll be late.”
When my big brother came home from school, I asked him, “Jack, how can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” he replied, “but I wish for an A in geometry.”
That afternoon and evening Jack left the television off and worked hard on his geometry.
As soon as Dad came home, I asked him, “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” he answered, “but I wish my good suit was cleaned and pressed. I need it tomorrow.” Looking at Mom’s note saying that she would be late, he started picking up the living room. “Hmmm … it needs the full treatment,” he said. He wheeled out the vacuum cleaner.
“I wish I could ride my bike, now that you took off the training wheels,” I said as he was putting the vacuum cleaner away.
“Come on, I’ll help you practice.”
First he showed me how to stop and get off. Then he gave me some good starts, and I began to get the hang of it.
When Mom came home, she looked around with pleasure at the clean, inviting living room. And the next morning Dad was happy to find his freshly pressed suit in his closet.
That afternoon Janie seemed happy. She had received a birthday check from her grandmother. “In another week I’ll have enough for my blue dress.”
Jack came home, walked right past the basketball hoop he loved to shoot at, and went into his room.
“When’s the test?” I asked.
“Next week. I have three more study sessions.”
A week passed. I practiced every day riding my bicycle in the driveway. I had a skinned elbow, a bruised knee, and a scraped ankle, but I finally mastered the bike.
I was proudly riding it when Janie came by to model her beautiful blue dress for me.
“You look great, Janie,” Jack said as he came down the sidewalk. Then he grinned and waved a geometry test paper with a 94 on it!
How can wishes come true? Figure it out—I did!