Gospel Story Finder

I have recently thought about influences in my life that have developed my convictions about the human body and about my body in particular. Growing up on a farm in southeastern Idaho provided me with many opportunities to develop and test my physical body. While I was very young, one of my chores was to get up early and run to the pasture to bring the cows into the milk barn. I got up at five o’clock—that habit has stuck with me all of my life. This daily activity—considered a chore by others—was a wonderful experience for me as I ran through the pasture, jumping the ditches, dodging the gopher holes, skipping, leaping, changing movement patterns, finding new routes to travel, and finding the exhilaration of the body moving through the atmosphere. I also remember the wonderful inner feeling I received when I first noticed that the cows were interested in my physical entrance into their presence. Old Pet, the leader of the herd, would be the first, and soon the entire herd would watch my antics as I rounded them up.

There are many ways bishops and quorum members can help to relieve the suffering and anxiety of the unemployed. Phil’s Auto of Centerville, Utah, is a testament of what priesthood leadership and a quorum can accomplish. Phil was a member of an elders quorum and worked as a mechanic at a local automobile repair shop. Unfortunately, the repair shop where Phil worked experienced economic trouble and had to let Phil go from his job. He was devastated by this turn of events.
On hearing about Phil’s job loss, his bishop, Leon Olsen, and his elders quorum presidency prayerfully considered ways they could help Phil get back on his feet. After all, he was a fellow quorum member, a brother, and he needed help. They concluded that Phil had the skills to run his own business. One of the quorum members offered that he had an old barn that perhaps could be used as a repair shop. Other quorum members could help gather needed tools and supplies to equip the new shop. Almost everyone in the quorum could at least help clean the old barn.
They shared their ideas with Phil; then they shared their plan with the members of their quorum. The barn was cleaned and renovated, the tools gathered, and all was put in order. Phil’s Auto was a success and eventually moved to better and more permanent quarters—all because his quorum brothers offered help in a time of crisis. Priesthood quorums can and must make a difference.

The summer sun was hot on my back, and beads of sweat ran down my forehead. I wedged a pole among the roots of the tree stump and was going to push on the end, when my mother called.
“Todd? Your father’s home!”
I dropped the pole and ran across the soft brown field toward the house. Ducking beneath a line of flapping sheets, I ran around the house and stopped short of crashing into our wagon.
“Here, son,” my father said with a smile. “Take this sack of flour and give it to your mother.”
As soon as we unloaded the wagon, I put the horse in the pasture and returned to the house. Father was giving Mother a bundle.
“Twenty yards of unbleached muslin,” he said as he handed her the paper-wrapped package.
She smiled. “Thank you, James!” she said happily. Then she undid the string and removed the paper. “You can add the string to the ball,” she said, handing it to me. “Then you can have the paper for your schoolwork.”
I wound on the piece of string, then sat and watched as the rest of the provisions were put away. At the very last, Father reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of cinnamon candy. He rumpled my hair then handed the candy to me. My mouth watered and I was about to break off a piece when Mother reminded me that it was time for lunch. At the table we bowed our heads while Father offered the blessing. As we ate, I listened to them talk.
“Ed Beesley was in town, Ellen,” Father said. “He offered to buy our land.”
Surprised, I looked from Father, who sat eating contentedly, to Mother, who looked like she was about to explode.
“And what was your answer?” she asked in an uneven tone.
“Well,” Father replied as he slowly took another piece of meat, “he would pay us a lot of money.”
Mother’s eyes began to widen as she waited to hear the rest of the story. My father, however, took his time in the telling. “You could have almost anything you’d want … with plenty left over,” Father added.
“James Putnam!” my mother scolded. “Will you please tell me what answer you gave him?”
Father looked up and his eyes danced with mischief. “I told him no,” he replied simply.
Mother’s face turned into a bright smile as she went to his side. She kissed him, and they both laughed. “James Putnam, sometimes I just don’t know what you’re thinking.”
I smiled and finished my lunch.
Father carried the ax as we returned to the tree stump. “So you got all the digging done,” he said, smiling. “Good! But tell me, Todd, did you practice your writing today?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “But I do hate it, Father.”
“You hate it!” he laughed. Why do you hate writing?”
I kicked at a clump of sod and shrugged. “My eye knows how it should look, but my hand does it all wrong.”
Father laughed again and lowered the ax to the ground. He took off his shirt and looked at the stump. “You mean your hand isn’t disciplined yet. Keep at it, Todd. Practice is good discipline.” He knelt beside the stump and felt around the roots. “You did do a lot of digging, but there are still some big roots down there. I’ll chop them loose then we’ll be able to get this stump out of here.”
He reached for the ax and I knelt beside him, watching. When the roots were chopped, he knelt beside me, resting.
“It’s a lot of work, isn’t it, Todd?” he puffed with a smile.
“Do you think you’d ever sell the farm, Father?” I asked. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
He was quiet for a minute, then he smiled. “Money comes and goes, but the land is forever. No, Todd, I’d never sell it. It will be our legacy to you.”
“What’s a legacy?”
“A legacy is something precious that you leave to someone you love. What you decide to do with it will be your decision. But people see things differently. Ed Beesley sees land as something you divide it into small lots and sell. But land’s a funny thing, Todd; even when you have a deed, it’s not really yours. You’ve just paid for the right to use it.” He picked up a handful of soil. “Smell that promise of all green and growing things, Todd. It’s a lasting responsibility, and long after we’re gone, the land will still be right here for others to use. While I use it, I intend to treat it kindly, and with discipline, just as God intended.”
“What do you think God intended?” I asked quietly.
“I think He wants us to dig out dead stumps … and grow things. You see, when we treat the land with discipline, it treats us kindly. We leave a stand of forest for the deer and rabbits that live in our meadow. If we had no meadow, Mother wouldn’t be able to make rabbit stew. If we grew no crops, we’d have little or nothing to eat. If we didn’t clear stumps and rocks or didn’t plant seeds, no crops would come up and we’d have no one to blame but ourselves. So we discipline ourselves to hard work, Todd, just as you can discipline your hand to write properly. Then as time goes by, you will see the benefits of your effort.” Father got up. We’ve rested long enough,” he said, “now let’s see if we can move that old stump and make room for growing things.”
He put his back to the pole while I gripped mine with both hands. Slowly we pried, then eased up. Then we pried again and pushed with all our might. With a groan the stump slowly moved upward as the ground yielded its hold. My father laughed as streams of sweat ran down his face. And soon the stump lay upside down on the ground. He clamped a hand on my shoulder and shouted, “We did it, Todd! We did it!”
“Hello!” Mother called as she came across the field. “I’ve brought a cool drink of water.”
She ladled a cup for me, then she and Father went to sit beneath the shade of a tree. I stayed to break clumps of dirt from the bottom of the stump. Then I dug my fingers into the damp brown earth and let it trickle through my fingers. It formed a soft mound of earth that I smoothed flat with my hand. Carefully I wrote my name with a stick. The lines were scraggly and uneven. But with practice … yes, I knew I could write better.
I scratched out my name and looked out over the fields. Long green lines marked our rows where parsnips and corn and carrots and beets were reaching up through the ground. Here and there a tree stump or a rock poked through the soil. It will take years to clear them, I thought. Then I smiled to myself. It’ll be a big job, but the land will be mine. And I’ll be proud to continue my parents’ work.

Being a member of the Church provided spiritual blessings, of course. But it also gave me some wonderful friends. Around the time of my baptism, several young men my age began coming to church, and we formed a very close-knit group. We started attending every meeting and activity together.

When I was 17, I left my city to go to college. Three of my friends decided to go to college in the same city, and we lived together. This was a great blessing because we could support and protect each other. We encouraged each other to go to church. We also had home evening among the four of us, and sometimes we invited other students who were members of the Church. All of those years at the university, we strengthened each other. Forty-five years later, those young men are still my best friends. Although we live in different parts of the world, we are always in contact. All six of us served missions.

Elder L. Tom Perry taught my wife Stefani and me about the proper priorities of a true temple marriage over 30 years ago when he performed our sealing in the Salt Lake temple. Now, you may be wondering, how did you know Elder Perry? That’s the interesting part of the story: we didn’t know Elder Perry personally, and we had never met him before our wedding day. So how did he end up being our sealer?

Well, at that time, my father-in-law, Dennis Wood, worked as the director of government relations for US-West, the old phone company in Salt Lake City. A few weeks prior to our wedding, my father-in-law’s supervisor, who was not a member of the Church, came into his office and asked him if his daughter’s wedding was going to be in a temple. When my father-in-law confirmed that it was, his supervisor surprised him and said, “I have a community board meeting this afternoon and Tom Monson will be there—I’ll ask him if he will do your daughter’s wedding!” My father-in-law quickly told him that he shouldn’t do that, and that Elder Monson has a very busy schedule. His supervisor simply responded, “I’m going to do it.”

The next morning, the supervisor returned and said, “Well, I talked to Tom Monson, and he said he is going to be out of town on the day of your daughter’s wedding. But Tom Perry was there, and he said he’ll do it!” Even on the morning of our sealing, Stefani and I weren’t quite sure if it was really going to happen. But, sure enough, as we were sitting in the sealing room, in walked Elder Perry. After greeting us and our families, he turned to my wife with an unforgettable grin and said, “Stefani, what are you going to do the first time you walk into the kitchen and find a child covered from head to toe in strawberry jam?”

Now, that may seem like a bit of an odd thing to say to a bride on her wedding day—and not just because it involved a child covered in jam. Why was Elder Perry asking us about our children when we weren’t even married yet? I know now that it was because he wanted us to begin our marriage with the end in mind, and he was inviting us to see our marriage in an expanded and eternal way.

Elder Perry then opened the scriptures to us and read from Doctrine and Covenants 88:118, which reads: “Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing; and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God.”

Elder Perry taught us that we were gathered that day not just to participate in and witness a wedding, but that we were gathered to create a new eternal family. And that if we would prioritize these eternal truths in our marriage that our relationship with each other would be blessed and strengthened. Stefani and I have been so grateful for that teaching in our lives. In fact, we have had that scripture hanging in the entryway of our home throughout our marriage.

I am so grateful for that expanded vision of marriage. I love my sweet wife Stefani; she is my spouse, my partner, and my best friend. But I also love and admire her as the mother of our children and now as “Grandma Stef” to our grandchildren. And there are no titles I cherish more in this world than being called “Dad” and “Grandpa Jas.”

I was born in Salt Lake City but raised in Whittier, California, a suburb about 30 miles east of Los Angeles. I was raised in a home where, during my early years, we were less active. When I turned 11, we moved to a new home and began to attend church more frequently. We were sealed in the temple when I was 13. Now my brothers and I are all active members of the Church. We have all served missions. My brothers and I were married in the temple, but these are not things you would have predicted based on our early years.

I read about Shannon in the New Era. Her high school speech teacher assigned a group project to the students. They were to select a scene from a play to perform for the class. One group chose a questionable scene dealing with morality issues. The teacher allowed them to keep their selection “for the sake of art.” But knowing that it might be offensive, the teacher gave permission for those who felt uncomfortable to leave the room.
As the students’ scene began, Shannon felt a little bit nervous. Several of her classmates blushed and giggled uneasily, but no one left. She looked at a few of her Latter-day Saint friends, watching for one of them to give the signal for them all to walk out together. But none of them did. Shannon remained at her desk with her head down so no one could see her crimson cheeks. She felt very uncomfortable, but she was also afraid to leave. After all, it was art, right? Shannon states:
“At [that] moment, the Young Women theme came into my mind: ‘We will “stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.”’ (Mosiah 18:9). Immediately, I knew what [I was going to] do. ‘All places’ meant everywhere, even in a classroom with my friends.
“Quietly, I got up and left the room. That was it. No one got up and followed me. No one applauded my valiant act. No one was converted by my example. But inside I knew I had done the right thing” (Shannon D. Jensen, “Stand as a Witness,” New Era, Nov. 1998, 10; see Liahona, Aug. 1999, 8).

Marian Wright Edelman told the story of Jean Thompson, who was a teacher:

On the first day of school, Jean Thompson told her students, “Boys and girls, I love you all the same.” Teachers lie. Little Teddy Stollard was a boy Jean Thompson did not like. He slouched in his chair, didn’t pay attention, his mouth hung open in a stupor, his eyes were always unfocused, his clothes were mussed, his hair unkempt, and he smelled. He was an unattractive boy and Jean Thompson didn’t like him.

Teachers have records. And Jean Thompson had Teddy’s. First grade: “Teddy’s a good boy. He shows promise in his work and attitude. But he has a poor home situation.” Second grade: “Teddy is a good boy. He does what he is told. But he is too serious. His mother is terminally ill.” Third grade: “Teddy is falling behind in his work; he needs help. His mother died this year. His father shows no interest.” Fourth grade: “Teddy is in deep waters; he is in need of psychiatric help. He is totally withdrawn.”

Christmas came, and the boys and girls brought their presents and piled them on her desk. They were all in brightly colored paper except for Teddy’s. His was wrapped in brown paper and held together with scotch tape. And on it, scribbled in crayon, were the words, “For Miss Thompson from Teddy.” She tore open the brown paper and out fell a rhinestone bracelet with most of the stones missing and a bottle of cheap perfume that was almost empty. When the other boys and girls began to giggle she had enough sense to put some of the perfume on her wrist, put on the bracelet, hold her wrist up to the children and say, “Doesn’t it smell lovely? Isn’t the bracelet pretty?” And taking their cue from the teacher, they all agreed.

At the end of the day, when all the children had left, Teddy lingered, came over to her desk and said, “Miss Thompson, all day long, you smelled just like my mother. And her bracelet, that’s her bracelet, it looks real nice on you, too. I’m really glad you like my presents.” And when he left, she got down on her knees and buried her head in her chair and she begged God to forgive her.

The next day when the children came, she was a different teacher. She was a teacher with a heart. And she cared for all the children, but especially those who needed help. Especially Teddy. She tutored him and put herself out for him.

By the end of the year, Teddy had caught up with a lot of the children and was even ahead of some. Several years later, Jean Thompson got this note:

Dear Miss Thompson:
I’m graduating and I’m second in my high school class. I wanted you to be the first to know. Love, Teddy.

Four years later she got another note:

Dear Miss Thompson:
I wanted you to be the first to know. The university has not been easy, but I like it. Love, Teddy Stollard.

Four years later, there was another note:

Dear Miss Thompson:
As of today, I am Theodore J. Stollard, M.D. How about that? I wanted you to be the first to know. I’m going to be married in July. I want you to come and sit where my mother would have sat, because you’re the only family I have. Dad died last year.

And she went and she sat where his mother should have sat because she deserved to be there.

For several years, my parents didn’t know where I was. They were good people who tried to give me the best education possible and were understandably disappointed by my choices. When my father became ill, my mother persuaded me to return home to Washington, D.C. When I arrived, John found me a job on a crew building the Washington D.C. Temple.
I didn’t know it, but he had arranged for me to work with a crew of returned missionaries. I was stunned that John Howell, the lead foreman, would ask a crew member to pray at the start of each day’s work—something I had never seen with crews I had worked with previously.
One day at work, several of us were mounting one of the temple’s heavy front doors when it fell and smashed my finger as thin as a dime. John hurried over, looked at my finger, called for some consecrated oil, and gave me a blessing. My finger healed so quickly that I didn’t need to see a doctor.
On another occasion, I was given a razor blade and told to scrape bits of debris off the concrete floors.
“Why?” I asked one of our crew members. “Aren’t they putting carpet down?”
“Randy, you don’t know whose house this is, do you?” he responded. “We’re perfecting it for the Perfect One.”
The world was drowning in cynicism, bitterness, hatred, and fear, but the example and teachings of the young men I worked with filled me with hope. As crew members shared their beliefs with me, I knew they were being honest and authentic. They had given two years of their lives to serve others, and they were intelligently optimistic. I wanted their teachings to be true. I felt I was gaining the enlightenment I had been seeking and that the Lord was preparing me spiritually.
John Howell suggested I meet with the full-time missionaries. Instead, I opted to have my brother and one of his friends, another returned missionary, teach me. As they taught me, I wanted external, incontrovertible evidence that what I was learning was true. Without that proof, I didn’t want any further discussions.
When I asked how they knew the truth, they replied, “We have read and prayed and felt a witness from the Holy Ghost.” They told me I needed that same witness.
That night I went into a grove of trees near my neighborhood. I don’t know how long I prayed, but I did so with absolute intent. I repeatedly asked God the same four questions: “Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? Did You and Your Son appear to Joseph Smith? Is this the true Church of Jesus Christ? Am I good enough to be a member?”
The answer to each question came in a whisper to my soul—“Yes”—four times. Those whispers were accompanied by serene and sublime feelings.
With my head bowed, kneeling in prayer and drenched with tears, I exclaimed: “If this is the answer You will give to me, then I accept it and will commit my life fully to You and this gospel as You reveal it to me.” Words cannot express the thoughts, feelings, and truths that enveloped me.
The witness I received that night was incontrovertible, and it’s as strong now as it was then. Since that prayer, God has proved those answers to me in thousands of miraculous and practical ways.
“The Church is a miracle,” says Randy, pictured here a month after his baptism. “And my life in the Church has been miraculous.”
Soon after I was baptized in 1974, I attended my first general conference in Salt Lake City with my brother, John. I was surprised when Elder Boyd K. Packer (1924–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had met my aunt in New York City three weeks before that conference, referred to John and me during his Sunday morning talk.
Quoting my aunt, Elder Packer said: “Two of my nephews have joined your Church. I can hardly believe the change that it’s made in their lives.”
Because of that profound change (see Alma 5:14), a fire burned inside me that I wanted to share. Soon, I found myself in Idaho as a full-time missionary. Halfway through my mission, my father, who was my greatest hero and best friend, passed away. My mother called my mission president and asked that I come home to give a eulogy. When my mission president left the decision up to me whether to leave, I told him I wanted to pray and fast for 24 hours before deciding.
That night I had a dream. My father appeared to me. In the midst of sublime and meaningful discussions with him, he told me, “Son, stay on your mission.”
I followed Dad’s counsel and stayed.
Because of the profound change that followed his conversion, “a fire burned inside” Randy that he wanted to share as a full-time missionary.
Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.
On February 17, 2018, two weeks before the Washington D.C. Temple closed for renovation, I was sealed to my father and mother, 42 years after they had passed through the veil into eternity. My oldest son, Randall, acted as proxy for my father, and Lisa acted as proxy for my mother. I felt that my parents, who had been sealed to each other earlier, were both there in spirit.
In the temple we find cords that bind us forever to our loved ones. I am certain of that.
When I was young, I didn’t want to get married or have children. But today my wife, children, and grandchildren are my greatest treasures. The Church is a miracle, and my life in the Church has been miraculous. With Joseph Smith, I say, “If I had not experienced what I have, I would not have believed it myself.”
Fifty years ago, I was a construction worker on the Washington D.C. Temple. I was convinced that my life had no happy future. Today I am an ordinance worker in that same temple, having accepted the Lord’s invitation to follow Him, receive His healing, embrace His ordinances, and strive to become like Him.
Randy and his wife, Lisa, serve in the Washington D.C. Temple, which he helped build 50 years ago.
Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
The restored Church is not a theory, a philosophy, or merely a community or culture. It is the true Church of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I thought I would find what I was looking for in San Francisco. I didn’t. I found it in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and in the house of the Lord, “the crowning jewel of the Restoration.”

Three days ago, Michelle’s grandma had died. Her parents explained to her that Grandma was in heaven now.
Michelle had never been to a funeral. She tried to sit quietly and listen to the speakers. Uncle Robert spoke first. He said that Grandma had finished her life mission. Michelle wondered what that meant.
After Grandma’s funeral, Grandpa invited everyone back to his home. Michelle liked going there. She especially liked the drawer in the hallway that held toys for the grandchildren. She had often played with the brightly colored blocks and puzzles. Her little brother, Joshua, who was 18 months old, preferred the trucks.
Sometimes Grandma had let Michelle play with the baskets she collected. Today Grandpa invited everyone to choose a basket as a memory of Grandma. Michelle picked a tiny one with a handle. She showed it to Mama, who held up a quilted basket of her own. She said it would remind her of how Grandma loved to quilt.
Tears gathered in Mama’s eyes, and Michelle wrapped her arms around Mama’s neck. “It’s all right. Grandma’s in heaven now,” she whispered.
Mama pulled her close and hugged her. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“I still feel sad,” Michelle said.
Mama stroked her hair. “We can’t help feeling sad, but we should be happy, too. After all, Grandma is with Heavenly Father and with family and friends who love her. We know that we’ll see her again someday. And because of Jesus Christ we’ll all be resurrected and live forever. I’m sure Grandma wants us to be happy about those things.”
Michelle felt better, but something about the funeral still puzzled her. “What did Uncle Robert mean when he said Grandma finished her life mission?” she asked. “Is that like when Cousin Steve finished his Church mission and came home?”
Mama took a long time answering. “In a way it is,” she said at last. “We are sent to earth to do certain things. Some of those things are different for each of us, but many are the same, like receiving a body. We should also learn about Jesus Christ, accept the gospel, be baptized, keep the commandments, repent of our sins, receive temple endowments, and start an eternal family.”
“Like when you and Dad got married?” Michelle liked to hear the story of how her parents had met in college.
Mama nodded. “Grandma and Grandpa were married in the temple, too.”
“What else did Grandma do on her mission?” Michelle asked.
“She served others. Remember how she was always knitting bandages and baby booties? Those were for Church Humanitarian Services to send to people all over the world. Grandma did a lot of things for others.”
“Like baby-sit me and Joshua sometimes.”
Mama wiped away a tear. “Your grandma has completed the mortal part of her life mission, but she’s not finished serving. She’s probably busy doing something to help someone else right now.”
Michelle smiled. “I’m going to help Joshua put the toys away and tell him that Grandma’s busy in heaven just like she was here.”

When our twenty-one-year-old daughter, Georgia, was critically injured in an accident, her father and I were serving a mission in Brazil. We hurriedly got a flight back to the United States. We trusted that the Lord would answer our fervent prayers. Georgia was given a priesthood blessing by a worthy priesthood holder—her brother—and we knew the Lord had the power to heal her. But she died before our plane landed. We had prayed that she would live.

Did the Lord hear our prayers? Yes. Did He answer them in the way we had pleaded He would? No. Should we have bitterly turned away from Him and looked to some other source for peace and understanding? No. There is no other source of lasting peace and eternal life than Jesus Christ. Sometimes we feel overwhelmed with our troubles, but the Lord is stronger than our challenges. He gives us strength and inspiration to face them.

In the fall of 1911, Alma Richards returned to Brigham Young University with the goal of going to the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden. Alma was a twenty-one-year-old high jumper from Parowan, a small town in southern Utah. Before going to BYU the previous year, he had known next to nothing about the Olympics. Then his coach told him he had a shot at competing in the games.
“If you will train consistently for a year and a half,” he said, “you will make the team.”1
At first, Alma thought his coach was joking. He was naturally athletic, but he was taller and heavier than most high jumpers. And he did not have much experience or training in the sport. Rather than scissor kicking or rolling his body horizontally over the high jump bar, as most jumpers did, he would launch himself awkwardly into the air, curling up in a ball as he flew.
But he put his coach’s words to the test. He trained regularly and began excelling in local athletic competitions.2
His desire to excel in his sport led him to keep the Word of Wisdom at a time when the principle was encouraged but not strictly required in the Church. In abstaining from alcohol and tobacco, he trusted the Lord’s promise that those who followed the Word of Wisdom would “run and not be weary” and “walk and not faint.”3
In the spring of 1912, his coach told Alma that he was ready for the Olympic tryouts. “You are one of the fifteen best high jumpers in the world,” he said, “and one of the seven best in the United States.”
Alma Richards stands in the Stockholm stadium at the 1912 Olympic Games.
Alma Richards’s eyes hurt as he peered at the high jump bar. It was the third day of the 1912 Olympics. The sun over Stockholm’s new brown-brick stadium was unbearably bright, irritating an eye infection that had plagued Alma for weeks. When he was not jumping, he wore an old, droopy hat to shade his eyes. But now that his turn had come again, he stepped to the side of the field and tossed his hat into the grass.4
As Alma prepared to jump, his mind raced. There he was, representing his country at the greatest athletic competition in the world. Yet he felt weak, as if the whole world were resting on his shoulders. He thought of Utah, his family, and his hometown. He thought of BYU and the Saints. Bowing his head, he silently asked God to give him strength. “If it is right that I should win,” he prayed, “I will do my best to set a good example all the days of my life.”5
Raising his head, he felt his weakness slip away. He threw his shoulders back, walked up to the starting line, and crouched into position. He then skipped forward in a burst of energy and leapt into the air, tucking his knees beneath his chin. His body barreled forward and sailed over the bar with inches to spare.
After returning from the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden, Alma Richards was honored in a parade.
On the sidelines, Hans Liesche suddenly looked nervous as he warmed up for his jump. Alma ran in circles to keep his legs limber. If Hans cleared the bar, as Alma was sure he would, the bar would be raised even higher, and Alma would have to jump again.
When Hans launched into his first jump, he fell on the bar and sent it crashing to the ground. Frustrated, he returned to the field and made a second jump. Once again, he knocked the bar off its pegs.
Alma could see that his competitor was losing composure. Just as Hans squared up for his final attempt, a pistol fired nearby, signaling the start of a race. Hans waited for the runners to cross the finish line and then prepared to jump. Before he could, though, a band began playing, and he refused to start. Finally, after nine minutes, an official prodded him to hurry along. With nothing left to do but jump, Hans bounded forward and threw himself into the air.
Once again, he failed to clear the bar.6
Joy washed over Alma. The competition was over. He had won the gold medal and set an Olympic record. Hans came over and heartily congratulated him. Others soon joined in the praise. “You have put Utah on the map,” one man said.
James Sullivan, an official on the American Olympic team, was especially impressed with Alma’s coolness under pressure and wholesome lifestyle. “I wish we had a hundred clean fellows like you on our team,” he said.7
Within days, newspapers across the United States praised Alma’s victory, crediting his success in part to his religion. “They call the winner of the great jump ‘the Mormon giant,’ and he deserves the title,” one reporter wrote. “He is a self-made athlete, and his winning of world renown comes after years of endeavor and a determination inherited from the men who established the Mormon religion and made the desert blossom.”8
One of Alma’s friends, meanwhile, teased him about praying before his winning jump. “I wish you wouldn’t laugh,” Alma quietly responded. “I prayed to the Lord to give me strength to go over that bar, and I went over.”9

Our greatest gift this Christmas season was a telephone call announcing the birth of a new granddaughter, born on Christmas Day. My son excitedly called from his apartment in New Haven, Connecticut, where he is a student at Yale, to tell us of the arrival of a baby girl. A few days later we called him to see what kind of a father he was and to see if everything was all right. It happened to be just a few hours after he had brought the mother and the new infant home from the hospital, and you cannot imagine the excitement in his voice. He had been sitting in the rocking chair, rocking the little babe. He said, “You know, Dad, I’ve never felt like this over anyone before. Why, she’s just beautiful.” And I thought of the great blessings that come from starting to build eternal family relationships. That relationship between him and his wife began here at Brigham Young University, right after they graduated, and has matured and blossomed as he has gone on to advanced education. What opportunities there are for you to have imaginative contemplation as you prepare for your time of fulfillment here on earth!

I wanted the picture of Moroni burying the plates. Ever since the General Authorities had encouraged us to hang inspirational pictures in our homes, I had been gathering various art works that were meaningful to me. On this June morning, I stood in the Salt Lake Distribution Center, far from my Texas home, patiently looking through a collection of large pictures.
I had plenty of pictures already. Now I needed only a picture of Moroni, a prophet for whom I had a special feeling because of the power of his testimony.
As I searched for this picture, I spotted another one that touched me deeply. It was a picture of Jesus healing a blind man. I pulled it out, but when I found the picture of Moroni, I put it back. After all, I had enough.
However, as I walked away, I felt a nagging feeling. I turned back and added the picture of Jesus and the blind man to my purchase. I would frame the Moroni print, I reasoned. This one I would just take out and look at now and again.
It was some months after I returned home that I finally got to my picture projects. I framed the Moroni picture and gazed at it with satisfaction. Then I noticed another frame that had fallen behind the bed. I pulled out the frame, thinking it would match some of the other prints I had collected. But when I placed each of them in the frame, none of them looked right.
Finally I placed in the frame the picture of Christ healing the blind man. It looked lovely. I turned the picture over and read the description on the back:
“And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him (John 9:2–3).”

This spiritual blessing is with us today. A man whom I know related the following event:

I awoke early one morning to feel a very real presence in my bedroom. Although I could not identify who was there nor hear with my natural ears, I knew that I was supposed to learn something important. Clear words entered my mind. They told me: “Something terrible is happening. Tell [your daughter] that it must stop or she will suffer unmeasurable sorrow.”

I asked, “Will she know what it is about?”
“Yes.”
“Is it too late?”
“It is not too late.”

The message was relayed to the daughter, who called her father later that week to tell him not to worry. She had received a priesthood blessing and was visiting with her Church leaders. Some time later she told her father that she had been contemplating terminating her activity in the Church. She had become so disillusioned by disappointments and seemingly unfulfilled promises that her life was filled with confusion and numbness. Her trials were far from over, but by then she had the support of Church leaders, family members, and, most important, the Holy Ghost.

Prior to joining the Navy at the close of World War II, I attended Brigham Young University. Because I played the trumpet, I was invited to join the symphony orchestra for a special concert under the guest direction of Dr. LeRoy Robertson, the greatest Church composer in that day.
Many of the musicians were still in the service, and university enrollment was small. We were determined to have a full orchestra, however, so I was persuaded to perform on the French horn instead of the trumpet.
I soon learned the only similarity between the two instruments is that both are brass. I found the French horn much more difficult to play, especially in reaching for higher notes. With the trumpet I could accurately hit any note up to a high C, but with the French horn I never knew if my attack would be right.
I was nervous when we began the first rehearsal under the renowned Dr. Robertson. I had never before even been in the audience to hear a full symphony orchestra, and now I was right in the middle of the most magnificent sounds I had ever heard. It seemed to me that we had at least 50 violins and all kinds of other instruments in numbers to match the violin section.
The 12 bass viols to the left made the floor and my rib cage vibrate in unison. Behind were the other brass instruments and the timpani. I was in the center of a new world of glorious sound. The difficult French horn passage came. Everyone around me knew when I bobbled it, ending a fifth or a third out of register.
Dr. Robertson stopped the orchestra. “There is something wrong in the French horns. Let’s start over at the top of the page.”
Embarrassed, I began once more. I didn’t want to be singled out again as the offending musician. It seemed obvious to me that even with the violins singing, the brass trumpeting, the cellos warmly filling, the great bass viols zooming, and the other French horns boldly playing, Dr. Robertson might hear me if I made a mistake, but it would be impossible to know that I wasn’t really playing.
I puffed my cheeks out and went through the fingering, but as we entered the hard part of the French horn quartet no air went through my lips. To my absolute horror and embarrassment, Dr. Robertson stopped the orchestra and announced to the world, “The fourth French horn is faking it. Let’s start again at the top of the page.”
It is easy in many of life’s situations to fake our way through and think that our lack of preparation, or lack of effort, will go unnoticed. It may be true that in a large group some of our weakness will be covered up by others, but we know if we are putting forth our best effort. We know if we are faking it. Besides that, the Lord knows, and more times than we want to admit, a great bishop or mission president or other Church leader also knows.

Colten and Preston are teenagers who live in Utah. Their parents are divorced, and they have not received permission to be baptized. Even though they can’t pass the sacrament, they bring the bread each week. And even though they can’t enter the temple to do baptisms with the youth when their ward goes to the temple, the two brothers find family names next door at the family history center. The greatest influence on helping our youth feel included is other righteous youth.

I went through a time when I began to wonder if the Church was really the only true church on the earth. My friends all seemed to believe that their churches were true, and they are good people with high standards.

I set a goal to gain a testimony. I knew it would take time. I prayed, studied the scriptures, and made sure I attended all my Church meetings and activities. I really listened and asked questions, and I thought about all my parents had taught me. After I truly understood the gospel, I began to learn more about my friends’ churches. As I talked with my friends, I realized how fulfilling the gospel is in my life. As I shared with them my beliefs, I realized that I did know that the Church is true. A feeling came over me that was so great.

Don’t ever give up. A desire to gain a testimony is a sign that you are building one already. “And they did pray for that which they most desired … that the Holy Ghost should be given unto them” (3 Ne. 19:9).
Kerianna Copeland, 14Franklin, Pennsylvania

I was only three years old and did not want to leave the hospital, where my parents were recuperating after the car accident.
Photograph courtesy of the author; photograph corners form Getty Images
I struggled for many years with trauma and anxiety associated with a car accident that my parents and I were involved in when I was three. My unborn brother did not survive.
On the 25th anniversary of the accident, I had a flashback. Several months later, I was still struggling when a friend suggested that I turn to my Heavenly Father. I laughed and then asked, “What is He going to do for me?”
My struggles continued. After another year or two, I was tired of hurting and my pain was turning to anger. I took my friend’s advice and began to turn to God.
“If You are really there, send someone—anyone,” I prayed. “I need someone!”
The day came and went as I stood in my doorway, waiting in vain.
“See, God, nobody cares!” I said. “Nobody came!”
As tears rolled down my face, I slowly entered the house and shut the door. I walked up the stairs feeling defeated. But when I reached the top of the stairs, a powerful feeling came over me. It was so strong that it dropped me to my knees.
Then this thought came into my mind: “ReNae, I have been carrying you.”
Heavenly Father sent that powerful thought to me in a tender way when I needed it most. I realized that He does love me and that He does know me. He loves me so much that He has given me moral agency. He will not force me or anyone else to follow Him, but He and His Son invite us to come unto Them (see Matthew 11:28–30).
Since that day, I know that I can rely on Him. My life is better now because I strive to follow Him and to hear Him every day. While Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ allow me to feel pain, They also bring me peace, comfort, strength, and courage so that I can learn from doing hard things. Feeling pain helps me to understand and support others who are struggling.
We may never completely know what others are going through, but we can show love to those around us. I am grateful I know that my Heavenly Father loves me and listens to me when I call upon Him.

As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”
After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left hand?
While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease but also back to his oil-painting hobby. And he resumed college.