Gospel Story Finder

It was on Monday, 10 August 2020—around 8 p.m.—I was in a hurry to leave the office and rush home before the 9 p.m. curfew, which was set by the government as a safety measure to reduce the spread of the coronavirus.
I changed into my riding gear: beginning at my feet, then my knee guards, my jacket, and then reflector straps. I grabbed my helmet and headed out of the office. My motorbike was all alone in the dimly lit parking lot. Everyone else had already gone home, I thought, “maybe they are having dinner with their families right now”. I put on my helmet and the gloves, sat astride my motorbike, and turn on the ignition—Oh, I loved the sound of that Suzuki engine. Off I went as I waved goodbye to the security guard.
Over the years I have been riding the same road to work—I have ridden it so long that I have memorized the entire route, the bumps, a corner, even where the potholes are. That night, time was not on my side so I figured I should rush to the supermarket next to my house before it closed so that I could grab something to eat. Down the hill I descended—I think I was doing 70 kph—when suddenly I saw a monkey in the middle of my lane. I wanted to swerve but there was an oncoming vehicle in the other lane, also in a hurry to get home before curfew. I stepped on the rear brakes and gently tried to slow the bike, but I lost control, went airborne, and landed on the tarmac—flat on my stomach. The bike made several rolls and slid off the road.
For a moment I couldn’t hear anything but a buzzing sound. I could not feel my body. I tried to raise my head, but it was too heavy. I thought to myself, “I am either dead or paralyzed.” A few moments later, I heard someone ask if I was okay, and another surprised voice declared, “It’s a lady rider!” I tried again to raise my head and managed to look up. But all I could see were pieces of my beautiful motorbike scattered over the tarmac.
These good Samaritans helped me up and took me on the side of the road. They asked me to sit, relax, and to confirm if I was feeling pain anywhere in my body. They picked up my motorbike and moved it off the road, and I could hear one of them saying, “From the look of the bike, the lady must be badly injured.”
I stood up and noticed I was not in pain. I could walk, I could talk, I could also move my hands without feeling any pain. I was perfectly fine.
It dawned on me that I miraculously had escaped any injuries—even worse, death. I sat back and asked myself “If I were to die today, am I prepared to meet my maker?” Well, the honest answer was, “No. I wasn’t.” That part scared me the most, not the idea of dying but the fact that I was not prepared.
As a Latter-day Saint, I remembered how many times I have been counseled by leaders of the Church to be ready at all times just like the five virgins described in Matthew 25:1–13. I realized I had put more focus on worldly things than on things eternal. “It was time to change all this,” I reckoned. “So, what do I need to do, Lord?” I asked.
Elder Kim B. Clark of the Seventy once said, “‘Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not’. This is a call to trust the Lord completely, to surrender our will and to yield our hearts to Him and through His redeeming power to become like Him.”1
I determined that what I need to do is to offer a sincere prayer to the Lord, to repent of my sins every day, to feast on His word, to keep His commandments, to partake of the sacrament, to keep His Sabbath holy, and to worship in His holy temple as often as I can.
Since that day of the crash, I strive to do these simple acts of faith—following Elder Clark’s advice: “Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not.” I testify I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father drawing me closer and closer to Him and I have felt the sanctifying influence of the Holy Ghost as the days go by.

But Lucy Mack was no carbon-copy Christian. Although knowing God through scriptures and prayerful communion, she doubted the religions that claimed to speak for him. Early in marriage she showed double qualities of devotion and independence. A severe respiratory infection brought a high fever, and Lucy’s life hung in the balance. Weakened and semi-conscious, she was informed by her shaken husband that the doctors expected her to die. But that night powerful prayers stirred within her weakened frame. She sought life in order to “bring up my children, and be a comfort to my husband.” Making her “solemn covenant” with God, she heard a voice assuring her (in scriptural language), “seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” Her solid recovery began from that hour, as she vigorously assured her watching mother that “the Lord will let me live.”7

It’s the moment every high school athlete dreams of: cameras flashing, parents beaming, coaches applauding, a gold medal, laced with a ribbon, gently placed around your neck. But for Andrea Nelson, it just wasn’t right.
All runners had crossed the line for the girls’ 3,200-meter race at the Washington State High School Track and Field Championships. They had just caught their breath when the whispers started. Someone would be disqualified.
“Is it me?” each girl asked herself. They then waited in uncertainty for more than an hour.
At last, a judge ruled that the first-place runner, Nicole, would lose her place. She had supposedly stepped outside the lane for three consecutive steps. The other runners would move up, taking the stand one place higher than the order in which they crossed the finish line. Andrea had finished three seconds behind Nicole but would now be given first place.
At that moment two-time state cross country champion Andrea Nelson (17) of the Woodridge Ward, Spokane North Stake, made a decision that would catch the attention of out-of-state newspapers, land her on ESPN, and even cause her to be featured in Sports Illustrated magazine.
“My coach asked, ‘What are you going to do?’ I said, ‘Well, I’m going to give her the medal,’” Andrea remembers saying.
After being given the gold medal, she jumped without hesitation from the highest stand, ran over to Nicole and placed the medal around her neck, saying it belonged to her because she won the race.
The energy from Andrea’s simple gesture started a domino effect of selfless giving. Next, the second-place runner gave up her medal to Andrea, followed by third to second, and so on, until all eight girls gave up their medals. The eighth-place girl, who chose to forfeit her medal without a replacement in mind, later received a medal Nicole won in another race.
Andrea’s mother, Edie, says, “There is no way to describe how that felt and the way that people were responding. You just had to be there.” After the runners exchanged medals, Edie says, “A reporter ran past Brother Nelson with tears in his eyes saying he wished he could talk but was on deadline and, besides, he couldn’t get control of his emotions anyway.”
Ten days later, race officials reinstated Nicole as the winner after reviewing video of the race. But at the time Andrea made her decision, no one knew that would happen. The reinstated winner, Nicole, told Sports Illustrated, “It gave me chills. It was just an incredible, surprising thing for Andrea to do, because it wasn’t her fault. No one would have blamed her if she kept the medal.”
But Andrea knows how it feels to win a race. And that wasn’t what she felt that day. To her, violation or not, the other girl had earned a spot on the stand. “I’d rather win it the right way instead of having it given to me,” she says. She understands the Savior’s counsel: “Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” (Matthew 7:12).
For a girl nearly through high school, Andrea has received a lot of attention. After the track meet and before the beginning of summer vacation, newspapers and sportswriters were calling her high school to get her out of class as many as three times in a day. “I wasn’t expecting this to be a big deal. I just thought it was the right thing to do.”
But being looked up to or talked about isn’t really what motivates Andrea. When people mention her giving up the medal, she doesn’t break stride: “I don’t want to be the center of attention.” That’s Andrea. Like the eight other runners who followed her example, she’s just glad she could do the right thing when the moment presented itself.

Despite Elder Pratt’s earlier attempt, more than 100 years passed before the Church was permanently established in Chile. In 1956, Elders Joseph Bentley and Verle Allred were sent from the Argentina Mission to preach the gospel in Chile, now enjoying greater religious tolerance. In Santiago, these missionaries had the support of the Fotheringham family, members who had moved from Panama and had been hoping for missionaries to come.
The first baptisms were performed in Chile on November 25, 1956, in a pool at a country club in Santiago. Elder Allred recalls, “We went to the country club before the sun came up and had a service with prayer and short talks. I entered the water with Brother García; I baptized him first, and then eight other people after him. This was a very special occasion. What we all felt was unforgettable. … These members would be the pioneers of the Church in Chile and I believe that every one of them remained faithful until death: the Garcías, the Saldaños, and Sister Lanzarotti.”3

One woman, Kelly, was so touched by the opportunity to buy items for teens and children that she told her member friend, “This idea is so unbelievably awesome! Everyone needs to know about these machines!” Kelly posted about the experience on her Facebook page. She became an incredible advocate for the Giving Machine initiative, prompting five families in her neighborhood to visit a Giving Machine kiosk, as well as family members in three different cities to visit their local Giving Machine kiosks.

Margaret tucked her children into bed. Her son, Jeffrey, opened one eye. “Mummy, when can we go to the temple?”
Margaret kissed his forehead. “As soon as it’s finished.” She turned out the light.
Margaret was looking forward to the temple dedication too. She was excited to be sealed to her family. But the temple was far away in New Zealand. It would cost a lot of money to travel from their home in Australia. They had saved for months. They even sold their car. But they still needed 200 more pounds.
She knelt to pray. “Heavenly Father, please help us get the rest of the money we need.”
Just then her husband, Don, walked in. “I saw my father today. He apologized for not visiting us, and he gave us this.”
He handed her a piece of paper. It was a check for 100 pounds! Margaret could hardly believe it. Don’s father hadn’t talked to them in months. It was a miracle!
A few days later, Margaret’s parents visited. “We’ve been saving some money,” her father said. He pressed 100 pounds into Margaret’s hand. “Have a good trip!”
Margaret smiled. They had enough money now!
There was one more problem. The trip would take six weeks. Don’s boss said he couldn’t be gone that long. After a lot of prayer, Margaret and Don decided Don would quit his job.
Finally it was time to go. Margaret and Don helped their children onto the train. They rode it for five whole days.
“Are we there yet?” Jeffrey asked Margaret.
“Not yet,” she said. “Now we’ll take the boat to New Zealand.”
But there was more bad news. The boat had crashed. It wasn’t taking passengers. Had they come this far for nothing?
No! Margaret’s prayers were answered again. Someone gave them plane tickets. Soon Margaret and her family were flying over the ocean. Next stop, New Zealand!
When Margaret finally stepped inside the temple, her heart was warm. She even got to shake the prophet’s hand. “Heavenly Father will bless your family because you chose to come here,” he said.
Later, Margaret and her family dressed in white. They knelt around an altar to be sealed. Margaret beamed. Now they could be together forever!
When they got home, Margaret and Don had only 5 pounds left. But Margaret remembered the prophet’s promise. Heavenly Father would bless them.
And He did! The next week, Don came home with happy news. “I got a job! It’s even better than the one I had before.”
Margaret hugged him tight. She knew going to the temple would always be worth it.

When Brigham Reneer (6) of Provo, Utah, sings with the Primary, “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,”* he already knows, because of his special circumstances, what being called to serve is like. On February 4, 2001, he was called to be a stake youth missionary in the Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake. Even though most young men are called to serve full-time missions when they are nineteen years old, Brigham is already serving as a stake missionary.
His family lives near the Missionary Training Center in Provo, and every time they drive past it, he is fascinated by the groups of missionaries gathered outside. “I want to go on a mission,” he repeatedly told his parents, Julie and Randy Reneer. But they knew that his health would never allow him to serve a full-time mission.
The opportunity for him to serve came when Brother Wayne Arballo, the Reneers’ home teacher, was called to be a stake missionary. Brother Arballo said, “I was passing Brigham in the hall at church. I knelt down by him, and he tried to take my missionary tag. I let him take it, but it made me wonder if there was something more I could do for him.” Brother Arballo wanted to help Brigham fulfill his dreams of becoming a missionary. He talked to the stake mission presidency, and they spoke with the stake president. The result was that Brigham was called as a stake youth missionary.
Brigham received his call in a letter, much like the letters full-time missionaries receive. His grandfather bought him a black suit, his aunts and uncles gave him a set of scriptures, and the stake mission presidency ordered a missionary tag with his name on it. His missionary plaque hangs in the display case at the Oak Hills Second Ward. It includes his favorite scripture, Isaiah 11:6—“And a little child shall lead them”—and his favorite Primary song, “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”† He could not be set apart because he is not yet baptized, but he received a blessing from the first counselor in the stake presidency, Stephen Clark, to help him in his calling.
Being a stake missionary is a dream come true for Brigham. He and Brother Arballo, now his companion, visit Primaries and other organizations in the stake to share a message about Jesus Christ. After Brother Arballo bears his testimony, Brigham tells the story of the Savior’s life while his companion displays pictures. Brigham loves to bear his testimony that Jesus died on the cross and was resurrected. Even though Jesus’ crucifixion makes Brigham sad, he knows that the Savior lives and will return to earth. “Jesus helps people get better,” Brigham testifies. He knows that because of Jesus, we have nothing to fear.

I understand what you are going through. I have struggled through difficult times in which my testimony has been shaken. The way I was able to get through it—and gain the strengthened testimony that I have today—was with constant scripture study and prayer. I read my scriptures every opportunity I got. I prayed morning and night, straining to feel the Spirit. Yet it all seemed to be in vain. But one day, when I got home from school, I knelt by my bed. I don’t know how long I prayed, but I did receive an answer. Just pray always. Study the scriptures. You will find the answer you’ve been looking for.
Christopher W., 15, Nevada, USA

“My testimony of The Book of Mormon solidified my resolve to serve a mission,” he said.
He was called to serve in the Zimbabwe Harare Mission between 2005 and 2007.
The experience was a sort of fast-tracked course in life lessons.
“They say the growth you experience can only be apparent when you finally return home,” he said. “I believe this is very true. In the two years I spent on mission I believe I gained the experience of life it would take me a lot of years to have through other avenues of life.”
Serving his mission set the tone for his future in terms of leadership, hard work and ambition to succeed both spiritually and temporally.
“I learnt that leadership is not a question of a position, but the ability to influence others through integrity, consistency and a display of genuine care for other people,” said Brother Monesa. His ability to lead and support others has been amplified since his two years in the field. The growth he experienced was a game-changer, he said.
And perhaps most importantly, those two years of full-time service created a foundation for a commitment to the Lord for the rest of his life.
“My commitment to serve the Lord has been resolute since I served a mission,” he said. “I live by the code that as you take care of the Lord’s business, He takes care of yours. I have seen the Lord take care of my business for the past almost three decades and I have no doubt He will continue to do so as I keep my end of the promise,” he said.

I recall just a few years ago seeing a drama enacted at the Salt Lake Airport. On this particular day, I got off an airplane and walked into the terminal. It was immediately obvious that a missionary was coming home because the airport was full of conspicuous-looking missionary friends and missionary relatives.
I tried to pick out the immediate family members. There was a father who did not look particularly comfortable in an awkward-fitting and slightly out-of-fashion suit. He seemed to be a man of the soil, with a suntan and large, work-scarred hands. His white shirt was a little frayed and was probably never worn except on Sunday.
There was a mother who was quite thin, looking as if she had worked very hard in her life. She had in her hand a handkerchief—and I think it must have been a linen handkerchief once but now it looked like tissue paper. It was nearly shredded from the anticipation only the mother of a returning missionary could know.
Two or three younger brothers and sisters were running around, largely oblivious to the scene that was unfolding.
I walked past them all and started for the front of the terminal. Then I thought to myself, “This is one of the special human dramas in our lives. Wait and enjoy it.” So I stopped. I moved to the back of the crowd to watch. The passengers were starting to come off the plane.
I found myself wondering as to who would be first to breakaway from the welcoming group. A look at the mother’s handkerchief convinced me that she would probably be the one.
As I sat there, I saw the returning missionary start to come down the stairs from the airplane. I knew he was the one by the squeals of excitement from the crowd. He looked like Captain Moroni, clean and handsome and straight and tall. Undoubtedly he had known the sacrifice this mission had meant to his father and mother, and it had made him exactly the missionary he appeared to be. He had his hair trimmed for the trip home, his suit was worn but clean, his slightly tattered raincoat was still protecting him from the chill his mother had so often warned him about.
He came to the bottom of the steps and started out toward the airport building and then, sure enough, somebody couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t the mother, and it wasn’t any of the children, or even the girlfriend standing nearby. It was father. That big, slightly awkward, quiet and bronzed giant of a man pushed his way past an airline attendant and ran out and swept his son into his arms.
The missionary was probably 6?2? or so, but this big father grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and held him for a long, long time. He just held him and said nothing. The boy dropped his briefcase, put both arms around his dad, and they just held each other very tightly. It seemed like all eternity stood still, and for a precious moment the Salt Lake City Airport was the center of the entire universe. It was as if all the world had gone silent out of respect for such a sacred moment.
And then I thought of God the Eternal Father watching his son go out to serve, to sacrifice when he didn’t have to do it, paying his own expenses, so to speak, costing everything he had saved all his life to give. At that precious moment, it was not too difficult to imagine that Father speaking with some emotion to those who could hear, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” And it was also possible to imagine that triumphant returning son, saying, “It is finished. Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
Even in my limited imagination, I can see that reunion in the heavens. And I pray for one like it for you and for me. I pray for reconciliation and for forgiveness, for mercy, and for the Christian growth and Christian character we must develop if we are to enjoy such a moment fully.
I stand all amazed that even for a man like me, full of egotism and transgression and intolerance and impatience, there is a chance. But, if I’ve heard the “good news” correctly, there really is a chance—for me and for you and for everyone who is willing to keep hoping and to keep trying and to allow others the same privilege.
I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine. …
I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt!
Such mercy, such love, and devotion can I forget?
No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat,
Until at the glorified throne I kneel at his feet. …
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!
(Hymns, no. 80.)
In the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Seventh, we must live our religion. We must each consistently live our religion so that other people will recognize what we stand for. Many years ago now, when I served in the armed forces, I think I never had a close non-Mormon companion who didn’t know that I was a member of the Church and who didn’t know I had been a missionary. They treated me with the utmost respect and admired my standards. I don’t believe that I ever gave my companions cause to think less of the Church in all those years that I served with them.
One of those companions joined the Church. I didn’t preach a word to him about the gospel. Somebody else found him and taught him, but I suppose he remembered a young fellow named Bangerter who was a Mormon and remembered the way I had lived. I hope so.

There were two ranchers living side by side in southwestern Montana. They bickered and fought because each thought a rusty barbed wire fence that separated their ranches was not the true property line. Each felt the other was encroaching upon his land. The real estate records were unclear at the county courthouse.
They forbade their children to play with one another. The conflict became worse. Finally, after years of exchanging words and threats, one of the ranchers said to himself, “Enough of this.” He drove down the lane from his place onto the county road and then down the long driveway to his neighbor’s place.
“What do you want?” his adversary asked.
“Look, you take your hired men and your sons, and I’ll take mine; and we’ll put the fence wherever you’d like it. I’ve had enough of this. I want us to be friends.”
His raw-boned neighbor softened, and tears ran down both of their faces. The neighbor responded, “Hey, let’s drive to Virginia City and record that the present fence is where both of us want the property line to be.”
They did and the problem was solved. Why? Because a neighbor wanted to be one with the family next door.

Developing self-reliance means exercising our agency to care for ourselves and our families and doing our best to find solutions to our own problems. Becoming more self-reliant gives us increased capacity to serve in our homes, the Church, and our communities. One of the best ways to teach these concepts is by example, as this member describes:
“For as long as I can remember, my mom has risen early each day to study the scriptures. I have seen how she has developed a spiritual strength that carries her through difficult times. She depends on her own relationship with Heavenly Father to be her support. Along with her spiritual strength, I’ve been impressed by her ability to care for our family. I’ve watched her budget, sacrifice her own wants, seek education, and show a lot of humility in ways that have allowed her to meet our family’s financial needs and still be at home with her children after school. I want the kind of strength that she has, and I’m so grateful for her example that teaches me how to get it.”

Later, Rodney and Randy and Chris returned to the restoration site to witness the baptism they had helped prepare for. Matt McDevitt of the Honesdale Branch was being baptized. A small group of Saints from his branch accompanied him to share the happy moment. They walked carefully down the newly widened path and gathered at the riverside.

The day had begun with rain, and the clouds sullenly refused to break. They didn’t exactly roll back now. They did seem to grow a little lighter, though, and a thin wash of sunshine turned the water from dull lead to a pale silver. There was a hymn, a prayer, two brief talks, and then Matt was lead into the Susquehanna by his brother Mark. They stood in silence a moment under the leaves of overhanging trees as Mark raised his right arm to the square. The calm water near the shore reflected them in splashes of white as he said the simple, powerful words. Then he laid his brother gently beneath the cleansing ripples. For a moment the Susquehanna flowed over him—157 years downstream from the day when a being of light acknowledged two searching young men as his fellow servants.

Afterward, they climbed up to the restoration monument, where one having authority conferred the gift of the Holy Ghost on Matt, offering also a few heartfelt words of blessing and counsel in the name of the Savior.

The three young men from the Montrose Branch stood quietly on the fringes of the group. Most of the baptismal party didn’t even know of the work they had done. They were just three Saints sharing in the joy of living downstream from a day of glory.

When I was young, my grandfather Martin taught me that in the latter days, temples would literally dot the earth. At the time my grandfather expressed this thought to me, I could hardly imagine it. But I was raised with this knowledge and feeling in my heart. Recently I looked on the Church’s Web site under “temples,” and I could plainly see that temples, designated by red dots, are starting to spread over much of the earth.

The author being baptized by Thomas Salisbury in Sông Bé Lake, Vietnam.
Photograph courtesy of the author
I enlisted in the United States Army for a three-year term and arrived in South Vietnam on my 20th birthday. After eight months, I was assigned to a unit northwest of Saigon. While there, I quickly observed that one of my tentmates, Thomas Salisbury, was different from everyone else.
The difference was so striking that I eventually asked him, “Tom, why are you so different from everyone else?”
“Because I’m a Latter-day Saint,” he replied.
“What is a Latter-day Saint?” I asked.
He arranged for me to meet with him and Harold Lewis, a returned missionary who was serving as an assistant to the unit chaplain. During our first meeting in a tent that served as a small chapel, I agreed that if I really believed what they were telling me, I would be baptized. I also received a copy of the Book of Mormon, which I kept in the lower pocket of my cargo pants and read whenever I had downtime.
Several discussions followed, and I found that each lesson answered questions I had had in my search for truth. But when Tom and Harold asked me if I wanted to be baptized, I said no. I didn’t know how I could keep all the commandments they had taught me.
After attending a district conference in Saigon, I went to Australia for a week of rest and relaxation. While there, I started to realize how important the teachings of the gospel had become to me. Upon my return to Vietnam, I immediately announced to Tom that I wished to be baptized.
Soon after, Tom baptized me in Sông Bé Lake, Harold confirmed me a member of the Church, and Timothy Hill, our Church group leader, ordained me a deacon.
When I returned home to the United States six weeks later, I introduced the gospel to my girlfriend, who became my wife. She also embraced the gospel’s hopeful message.
I will be forever grateful that Tom asked me if I wanted to know more. His example and invitation answered my longing to find the truth and enjoy the blessings of the gospel.

J. R. Beeman and his little brothers always look like a school of sharks when they come at you on their bikes. They charge at whoever is around, and they back you into a corner if they can.
Todd and Aaron and I were shooting hoops late last Tuesday afternoon when they showed up and bumped their bikes onto the gravelly asphalt of the school yard. They kept rearing up their front wheels, making the dust go all over the place.
“I’m not afraid of those guys,” Todd muttered, looking quickly over his shoulder. I knew he was checking to see if any of the men at the gas station on Ohio Street were around, just in case.
Aaron didn’t say anything, but he got even quieter than usual. He had the ball and began bouncing it slowly and evenly. As the bikes raced closer, I saw him swallow—just one long swallow.
Then we all three automatically moved farther into the middle of the basketball court, away from the chain-link fence behind the hoop. Nobody wanted to be backed up against a fence by J.R.
“Hello, infants,” J. R. yelled, chewing open-mouthed on what looked like a whole pack of greenish-colored gum. His two little brothers laughed real loud at J.R.’s big, hilarious joke.
“Infants!” Tommy, the one in second grade, echoed.
Of course, there really wasn’t anything funny about it, since J. R. is ten-going-on-eleven, just like Todd and Aaron and me. I guess because his mom’s been sick for so long and he has to take care of his brothers and the house and everything while his dad’s away, he seems to think that being mean to everybody makes his brothers look up to him.
With his brothers following him, J. R. veered left and began making circles around us. Just like sharks, they kept circling us tighter, tighter. J. R. spit a mouthful of gum juice onto the court.
Right then Brother and Sister Damore and their four little kids walked by on the way to the park. They were singing silly songs and giggling and carrying a blanket and a big picnic basket. J. R. turned so fast and stared so hard at them that he nearly lost control of his bike. He stopped chewing, and his face got kind of … ordinary … even kind of sad.
His brothers looked where he was looking. “Do we get to eat dinner tonight?” his littlest brother asked in a kind of puny-sounding voice.
“Hey, I’ll take care of it, like I always do!” J. R. barked at him. He jumped up on the bike’s pegs to make his front tire rear, then came down hard on its left pedal and nosed his bike to the right, toward his own neighborhood.
I could almost feel Todd go limp with relief.
“See you, infants!” J. R. called back to us.
His little brothers followed like pets, pumping hard to keep up. Todd, Aaron, and I headed home.
“Hi, sweetie. How did your game go?” Mom asked when I dragged into our kitchen. “There’s juice, an apple, and some cheese in the fridge, but don’t spoil your supper.”
I opened the refrigerator door and hung there, looking things over, checking out the fruit. “What’re we having?”
“Fried chicken.” She turned to smile at me. “I bought extra legs.”
“Is that hard to cook?” I asked. “I mean, could a kid cook it for his family?”
I noticed then that she was dunking pieces of chicken into a big bowl of buttermilk and then into flour. Her hands had globs of wet flour sticking to them. She pushed her bangs back with her arm and gave me one of her smile-frowns, shaking her head. “What questions you come up with, Josh! Chicken? Depends on the kid, I guess. Older ones, maybe. Chicken’s pretty hard. As you can see, it’s messy, and the grease can splatter.”
“And burn you?”
She nodded. “It’s possible. Too big a chance to take.”
I shuffled things around in the meat bin. “Why? I mean, why wouldn’t you want to take the chance?”
She took the flour bowl over to the sink and turned the water on with her arm. A pan on the stove was making a popping sort of sound, and another pan was beginning to send steam spurting into the air. She washed the gunk off her hands, hastily dried them on the towel she had stuck into her jeans pocket, then hustled toward me.
I braced myself, but she didn’t sneak a hug. She just put her damp hands on my shoulders and maneuvered me out of the refrigerator, handing me a pear and shutting the door of the fridge. “Josh, I kind of need my concentration while I get this going. And you should get a little homework started—OK?”
We didn’t play basketball after school the next day, or the next. Our science projects for Mr. Fosnow were almost due, and I spent my time organizing the fossil collection I was putting together. On that second gameless afternoon, Thursday, I walked to Quigley’s Store to get some more rubber cement for my project. You go right past the school on the way. I heard the thunk of a basketball for half a block before I actually saw J. R. shooting really hopeless-looking shots at the basket in the school yard. He was by himself. Who would play with him?
He didn’t see me. I quickly turned to hurry back the way I’d come. I didn’t need the rubber cement that badly—I could use some of my little sister’s paste.
Then I heard laughter coming from the park. It was the Damores again. I turned back and watched J. R. He was listening, too, holding that ball perfectly still at chest level. When they started singing “We Are a Happy Family,” he suddenly jerked into motion and violently threw the ball more at the basket than toward it. It missed by so much that it even cleared the fence and rolled into the street.
J. R. kicked the loose gravel of the court. He whirled around under the net there by himself, kicking and hitting the tops of his own legs with his fists, and whisper-yelling something over and over while sweat ran down his neck and his face got red.
Meanwhile, the ball rolled clear across Ohio Street and jumped the curb. It rolled, slightly bouncing, toward me.
I went over and got it. When I straightened up, J. R. was looking directly at me, open-mouthed. My heart lurched like a fish inside my chest. I meant to throw the ball back to him, then run home. But I didn’t.
Instead I dribbled it across the street, around the fence, and onto the court. I could have shot an easy basket. But I bounced it to J.R., instead, threw up my arms, and jumped around like guarding in a real game.
For maybe half a second he looked confused, but I was right on him, so he ran, dribbling, then took a shot himself. He missed, but not by too much. With practice, he would get it.
I lunged to get possession of the ball. Above me, the orange hoop made a circle in the sky.

Pamela’s father, Thomas Wilson, would go with the missionaries on Sunday evenings to the marketplace in the city centre, where they held street meetings. A crowd would gather as the missionaries preached the restored gospel, and Pamela’s father went along to bear his testimony. When Pamela was a little girl, she used to ask if she could accompany him and he’d say, “No, I don’t think that’s the best place for you to come.” He knew that the crowds were not always friendly. Sometimes people yelled to distract the missionaries and threw rotten fruit at them.
Just before Pamela turned eight, her father agreed that she could go with him one Sunday. While she was there, she saw the hostility toward the missionaries and toward her father. She relates that her father was standing on a box, so as to be seen, bearing his testimony. She was standing behind him, holding on to his coattails. She heard him bear his witness of Jesus Christ. To see her father stand in those circumstances and declare his testimony made a great impression on her life; it anchored her to faith in the Savior.

Serving a mission can be a financial burden to any missionary and his family, but what do you do when you have three sons all wanting to leave at the same time? The Rozsa family has foreseen this, and the boys have been working since the age of 13 toward their missions. In addition to those icy Boston paper routes, they’ve sold avocados, worked in construction, and held other odd jobs. Last summer all three worked at the same taco stand at the same time, guaranteeing considerable confusion among unsuspecting customers. They report their bank accounts are in good shape for the missions to come.

The events of 23 June 1994 stunned Elder Holland. There had been no particular sense of foreshadowing in President Hunter’s invitation to a 7:30 A.M. visit. But by midday, Elder Holland had been called to serve in the Quorum of the Twelve, had been introduced in the quorum by President Hunter, and had been ordained by the President.

At the time of his call, he marveled at the vigor of President Hunter in handling surely and rapidly the events of the morning. It was evidence “that the Lord had worked a miracle in the life of Howard W. Hunter,” Elder Holland says. He speaks of feeling a powerful witness that President Hunter had been strengthened to lead the Church. “I saw the hand of the Lord on him.”