Gospel Story Finder

When I returned to the University of Utah after my mission, I began to date Kathy Kipp. Her father was a good man but not a member of the Church, and her parents were divorced. Kathy and her sister faithfully attended Primary together as young girls. Sometimes Kathy’s father wanted the family to do things on Sunday that were not appropriate on the Sabbath Day. Kathy knew that she needed to obey her father, but she went to church when she could.

When we began dating, I learned how strongly Kathy felt about keeping the Sabbath Day holy. Because of her devotion, our family has always tried hard to make Sunday a special day. We don’t watch TV on Sunday or go to sporting events. We listen to sacred music, write letters, and spend lots of time talking together. Our younger children liked to read stories from the Friend and from scripture readers. As a result, we have enjoyed a spirit of peace in our home on the Sabbath.

Heavenly Father loves all children and wants them to be happy. He designed the gospel to make us happy. One of my pioneer ancestors, William Clayton, wrote the hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30). He wrote it when the Saints had been driven out of their beautiful city of Nauvoo and were looking for safety. The chorus of that song reminds us that when we do what is right, “all is well.” That does not mean we will not have any problems. But when we follow our Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness, all will eventually be well.

I love to go sledding, especially on the hill by our house. One day, Mom asked my sisters and me if we would like to go. Of course I said yes. Just as we were leaving, Braiden, one of my best friends, called to see if I could play. I invited him to go sledding with us. He hurried over to my house, and we took off for the hill.
The hill was just as icy and fast as I had hoped it would be. We were having a lot of fun! Then Braiden said his hands were freezing. He had forgotten to bring his gloves. I felt bad that he had such cold hands. I quickly took off my gloves and gave them to him. We kept sledding for another hour or so. My hands were probably freezing, but I didn’t care because I was happy about giving my gloves to a friend. I know Jesus Christ would do the same for His friend. I want to always try to do what He would do. I had the best day ever on the hill because I felt warm inside.

Windows teach lessons never to be forgotten. Ever shall I remember a visit to the home of President Hugh B. Brown. It was graduation day at Brigham Young University. He was to conduct the exercises, and I was to deliver the commencement address. I drove to President Brown’s home and escorted him to my car. Before we could drive away, however, he said to me, “Wait just a few minutes. My wife, Zina, will come to the front window.”

I glanced at the window, noted that the curtain had parted, and saw Zina Brown sitting in her wheelchair, affectionately waving a small, white handkerchief toward the gaze of her smiling husband. President Brown reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved a white handkerchief, and began to wave it gently, much to the delight of his wife. We then inched away from the curb and commenced the journey to Provo.

“What is the significance of the white-handkerchief waving?” I asked.

He replied, “Zina and I have followed that custom since we were first married. It is somewhat a symbol between us that all will be well throughout the day until we are again together at eventide.”

That day, I witnessed a window to the heart.

Anna’s heart sank as she walked into the room and saw the Christmas tree. The water heater in their house had burst, and water was all over the floor. Dad was still trying to clean up the mess. The few presents under the tree were completely soaked.
Anna and her little brothers grabbed some towels and tried to dry the presents. But it didn’t really work. They were a soggy mess.
Anna’s family was going through a hard time. Her dad didn’t have a job right now. Her mom was going to have a baby soon, and she felt sick a lot. And now they wouldn’t have any presents for Christmas.
That night as Anna got ready for bed, she could hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen.
“What are we going to do?” Mom asked. It sounded like she was crying. “We don’t have enough money for the house payment, and now we don’t even have presents for the kids.” Anna had an empty, twisty feeling in her stomach.
“We’ll figure something out,” Dad said.
Anna walked into the kitchen. Mom reached out and gave her a big hug. With her arms around Mom’s tummy, Anna felt the baby move. She smiled. “We have a new baby coming. You always say that a baby is a miracle.”
Mom smiled back. “That’s right. We have a lot to be grateful for.”
“We have each other,” Dad said. He kissed the top of Anna’s head. “It’ll be OK.”
On the way to her room, Anna heard her brothers crying. She sat down on David’s bed.
“Everyone is so sad,” David said quietly.
“And we won’t have any presents,” Robbie said, sniffling.
“It’ll be OK,” Anna said again. “You’ll see.”
Before she got into bed, Anna knelt and asked Heavenly Father what she could do for her family. She didn’t have any money to buy presents, but she still had a warm, comforting feeling in her heart.
The next morning, she stayed in bed thinking for a few minutes before getting ready for school. Then an idea came to her! That afternoon she hurried home and did her chores and homework. Then she found some paper and string and a few markers and stickers she had gotten for her birthday. She took them all to her room and closed the door.
Anna almost laughed when she thought about how surprised her family would be. First she folded the paper and tied it together with string to make four booklets. She chose a star sticker to put on Mom’s booklet and a planet for Dad’s. She put a dog for David’s booklet and a rocket for Robbie’s.
Then Anna started drawing. For Mom she drew a picture of herself sweeping the floor. She drew a picture of herself cooking dinner with Dad, one of her playing soccer with David, and one of her reading a book to Robbie. It took her several days to fill each booklet with pictures.
Finally it was Christmas Eve, and Anna carefully placed her booklets under the tree.
The next morning, she gave each person in her family a booklet. “I like these pictures,” David said. “I like playing soccer.”
“They’re not just pictures,” Anna said with a sparkle in her eyes. “They’re coupons! The pictures all show things I’ll do for you.”
“This is the nicest gift you could have given us,” Mom said as she looked through her booklet. Anna was thankful that Heavenly Father helped her think of making Christmas coupons. A new baby was coming, and with Heavenly Father’s help, everything really would be OK.

When I was 11 years old, I loved basketball. My oldest brother loved it too. He played on the basketball team in college. He had to decide whether to serve a mission or keep playing on the team.
One night at dinner, he was talking with our family about whether or not to serve a mission. I just blurted out, “If you go on a mission, I’ll go on a mission.” Everyone was silent as my brother thought about what I said.
My brother did decide to go on a mission! In fact, all four of my brothers served missions. When it was time for me to decide whether or not to serve, it wasn’t a question. I had already made that choice!

Darrell was born in Bournemouth, the middle son of John and Iris Babidge. Music and the arts were a part of his childhood; his grandfather played keyboard in a band and his dad had a striking voice and loved to sing.
Singing wasn’t Darrell’s forte, to begin with, but he did have a love for the piano, inspired by his wonderful piano teacher, Miss Martin, who taught him from the age of 10. His uncle, Bryan Aubrey, was also a supporter of his musical ambition and bought him a metronome.
At the age of 16, despite his early promise, Darrell failed his O-level in music, although he still played the piano and sang at his local church. At this point singing was still an untapped passion in his life.
After serving a full-time mission in Scotland for the Church, Darrell went back to work at the solicitors’ practice of Lester and Russell. He enjoyed the work and the solicitors loved him and his work ethic.
They encouraged him to go to the careers office to find out what he would need to do to become a legal executive. Darrell was encouraged to pursue the vocation that meant the most to him. It was to be a pivotal conversation, for he left the office determined to follow a career in music. The advisor had told him that such a path promised little money or future, and yet something had been sparked in the young man’s imagination; even though the path was far from straightforward, he had a vision to follow.
At the age of 23 he auditioned for the London College of Music, using both voice and instrument (piano) as part of the audition. He was successful, and in 1990 started at the college as a mature student. Darrell was mindful of the career advisor’s warning, but his love of his chosen field blossomed and overrode any other practical or financial concerns.
During his time at the London College of Music he attended a performance of The Magic Flute at the English National Opera. There he had an epiphany, setting the wheels in motion for the next shift in his career.
Transferring to the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester, Darrell won a prestigious competition and was employed by the Glyndebourne Festival Opera. His voice was starting to be heard.
Darrell graduated in 1997 and attended Brigham Young University in Utah, USA to complete his master’s degree. From there, he moved to New York City to study at the Manhattan School of Music, for his third degree in the subject he had once failed while still a struggling schoolboy.
Whilst in New York he met and married Jennifer Welch, a renowned opera singer in her own right. In 2005 Darrell, Jenny and their two little sons moved back to Utah where they were both asked to teach at BYU. Darrell was eventually offered a full-time position, and Jenny decided to be a full-time mother.
As a professor of music for 14 years, Darrell was hugely successful, with his students winning major international opera competitions. One of his students, Rachel Willis-Sørensen, was invited to sing at Prince Charles’ 70th birthday party at Buckingham Palace, who has since gone on to be a highly successful recording artist.
In 2019, Darrell was approached by the world-renowned Juilliard School and offered a full-time faculty position. Darrell, Jenny and now five children moved back to New York.
His abilities opened many doors. He was part of the Channel Four programme on Glyndebourne Festival Opera; he sang with the BBC Symphony Chorus in the Last Night of the Proms; and he was a soloist at the BBC Proms at The Royal Albert Hall, and a member of The Tabernacle Choir on Temple Square. He has also sung at the Metropolitan Opera and Carnegie Hall.
In 2021 it was announced that Darrell would be chair of the music faculty at the Juilliard School. It can be no surprise to learn that his students have also won many competitions and have appeared on The Voice and America’s Got Talent. One student has also been nominated for a Grammy award.
Not bad for a young man who failed O-level music and was told a career in music had no future.
In Darrell’s words, “Never give up your hopes of doing something you love! I always knew I had a passion for music; my 16-year-old self just didn’t know it.”

Two years ago, when I was 14, I went to visit some relatives in another city in southern Germany. I was traveling alone by train, so I was a bit nervous but also excited. After my visit, I got on the train to go home. It was getting late at night as we approached the station where I was supposed to get off the train. I looked out the window and saw the station, but I suddenly had the feeling that I should stay seated.
Though the train wouldn’t be traveling on (this was the final station), I wanted to get home because it was getting late and I was nervous. But the impression to wait was very distinct. So I did it, though I wondered why.
After a few minutes I finally did get out. I had walked only a short distance when a policeman stopped me and said, “You were lucky. If you had come five minutes earlier, you would have been in the middle of a big fight.”
There had been a soccer game that evening between two archrivals. Some fans of one team had been in the front of the train and some fans of the other team in back. When they had gotten off, a couple of them had started provoking one another, and then everyone had started fighting. I later heard that by the time the police came to break it up, over a dozen people had been injured and taken to the hospital. The police had then blocked everything off and taken all the suspects with them.
One policeman came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying, “Wow. If you had been there, we probably could have hauled you off as well.” I realized that if I hadn’t followed that impression, something very bad could have happened to me.
As I went home, I prayed to Heavenly Father and told Him that I was thankful that I had listened to the Holy Ghost and hadn’t gotten off the train. I knew that He had protected me.

“There it is,” I whispered to Randy as we watched the magpie glide through the air and land in the poplar trees just this side of Jed Franklin’s place. We clutched our rocks and glared at the shiny black bird with the white tips on its tail and wings. Dad had said that he didn’t like magpies eating our vegetables, so Randy and I had chased it out of the garden. Chasing magpies was lots more fun than weeding.
“Do you think we ought to follow it over there, Russell?” Randy asked.
I thought about going back to the garden to finish weeding. I scratched my head. “Dad said that if they’re not chased miles away, they just come back.”
Randy swallowed. “But it’s on Mr. Franklin’s place now.”
I shuddered just a little. Jed Franklin was the meanest man I knew. He lived alone on a little run-down farm just down the road from us.
“I figure we can sneak over there through the trees without him seeing us,” I whispered.
Before Randy could answer, I started down the dirt lane toward the Franklin place. I heard Randy scramble after me. The magpie was still in the poplar tree when we got there. We each threw a rock.
“We didn’t throw close enough to it,” I muttered as I watched the magpie fly away, then perch itself right on top of Mr. Franklin’s new light pole. “We can chase it a lot farther away for sure from there,” I said excitedly.
“But, Russell,” Randy gasped, “we can’t go into Mr. Franklin’s yard!”
I stared ahead and suddenly grinned. “He’s not even there. His pickup’s gone.”
A few moments later Randy and I were hunched down by the corner of Mr. Franklin’s barn, looking almost straight up at the magpie. “Aim good,” I said.
I don’t know which rock went where. All I know is that we shattered Mr. Franklin’s new light! Glass flew everywhere.
We sprinted for home—past the poplar trees, across the dirt lane, and to the garden, where we should have been all afternoon. We grabbed our hoes and started chopping weeds as fast as we could. Even when we were finished, we kept looking for weeds where there weren’t any. And every few minutes we glanced toward the Franklin place.
It was almost suppertime when we heard Jed Franklin’s old pickup rumble down the road past our place to his. We didn’t dare stay in the garden after that. We put our hoes away and went into the house.
That night after we’d gone to bed and should have been sleeping, I lay on my pillow with my eyes wide open and a thousand things going through my mind. When I’d said my prayer that night, the words didn’t go anyplace. They just stayed in the room with me. “Are you awake?” I whispered to Randy, who was on the bottom bunk.
Randy kicked his covers back and muttered, “Yes. I can’t go to sleep. I keep thinking.”
“We didn’t mean to do it,” I argued. “It was an accident.”
“I know,” Randy came back, “but Mr. Franklin still lost his light.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” I muttered.
The next morning, Randy and I were helping Dad fix a sagging barn door, when Mr. Franklin pulled up in his pickup. I took a step backward, bumping Randy and spilling a sack of nails on the ground. Mr. Franklin leaned out of his pickup and glared at us. “Well, they’ve done it again,” he snapped.
Dad straightened up. “Who did what?” Dad asked.
Mr. Franklin stared at Randy and me. I gulped, wondering how he’d found out. “They broke my new light,” he growled. “It hasn’t been in a week, and they knocked it out yesterday while I was away.”
“Who did it?” Dad asked.
I got ready to turn and run. I just knew Mr. Franklin was going to jab a finger at Randy and me and bellow, “They did!”
“Kids!” Mr. Franklin snorted. “Probably those kids on the three-wheelers. They’re always racing through my yard and driving up into the hills. They leave gates open, tear things up, and scare my stock. Now they’ve gone and knocked my light out. If I ever get my hands on them … !”
“Those guys on the three-wheelers sure saved us,” I muttered after Mr. Franklin had left and Dad had gone into the barn. “And we didn’t even have to lie or anything,” I said, smiling, but still feeling dark and sick inside. I kept thinking of something Mom had told us once. She had said that you could tell a huge lie just by being quiet when you knew the truth.
“Why does Mr. Franklin have to be such a mean old guy?” I asked Dad when he came back.
Dad thought for a moment, then answered, “Oh, he’s not mean. Just lonely.”
“He sure seems mean to me,” Randy said, “always running around with that ugly frown.”
Dad scratched his head. “Sometimes Jed looks mean and angry with everyone because nobody ever seems very nice to him.”
After we had finished the door, Randy and I sat in the barn and talked.
“I wish we hadn’t done it,” Randy said.
I nodded. “We ought to pay him for the light.”
Randy gasped. “But then we’d have to tell him we broke it in the first place.”
“Well, maybe we could work for him. We wouldn’t tell him why, and that way we could pay for the light without him even knowing it.”
It was the best idea we had had. We hated to hoe corn, but we knew Mr. Franklin had a little patch that needed hoeing, so we headed for it. The sun was hot, bugs buzzed around us, sweat trickled down the sides of our faces, our backs ached, and I even wore a blister on my hand. But for the first time since Randy and I had broken the light, I felt good because we were making up for what we had broken.
“What are you kids doing?” a voice boomed out at us as we were finishing the last two rows.
We whipped around, and there stood Mr. Franklin leaning against a fence post.
I gulped and licked my lips, “We’ve been hoeing your corn.”
“Why?”
“The corn needed hoeing,” Randy said.
“We wanted to,” I added. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, I don’t mind.” He almost smiled. “Mighty fine work.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown wallet. “I guess you boys could use a little spending money.”
“We didn’t do it for money,” I burst out.
Mr. Franklin looked at me, then at Randy, who was nodding in agreement.
“But I’d like to pay,” Mr. Franklin said, counting out some money. “I don’t remember any kids ever helping me before. Sometimes kids come over and knock my lights and windows out, but this is the first time any showed up to help.” He held the money out. “I insist that you take it.”
We couldn’t make ourselves tell him about the light, so we took the money and headed for home, feeling worse than we’d felt before we hoed the corn.
“Why don’t we feel good, Russell?” Randy asked me. “I thought you were supposed to feel good after you did something good. I just feel rotten.”
“I guess it’s because we did something good just to cover up something bad.”
For a long time we stayed in the barn, thinking. We both knew that there was only one thing we could do to make us feel better, but we were both scared to do it.
“I’m going back,” I finally announced.
“Going back!” Randy gasped.
“I’m giving the money back.”
“But what will you tell him?”
I took a deep breath. “I guess I’ll just tell him the truth. That’s what we should have done to start with.”
It was hard going back to Mr. Franklin’s place, one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life. I would rather have hoed a dozen fields of corn than explain what we had done to his light.
We found him by his old pickup. The hood was up, and he was hunched over the engine, banging and tugging with a wrench. His hands were greasy, his face was red, and he was chewing hard on a soggy toothpick.
As soon as he looked up and saw us, I pulled the money from my pocket and set it on the fender of the pickup. Then I stepped back and looked directly at him. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Randy was doing the same.
Mr. Franklin looked at the money. “What’s this for?” he demanded gruffly.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the ground. I watched a tiny ant tug and pull at a piece of straw that was ten times bigger than it was, “We didn’t hoe the corn for money,” I explained in a raspy whisper. “We did it to pay for your light.”
“My light?” He straightened up and wiped his hands on his pants.
My heart was hammering so hard in my chest that I thought it was going to burst. I opened my mouth to answer, but I didn’t have any breath to speak. I sucked in some air. “The kids on the three-wheelers didn’t break your light,” I wheezed. “We did.”
“But we didn’t mean to,” Randy got out. “We weren’t trying to be mean or anything. We were just trying to chase away that old magpie.”
“Did your dad make you come over here?” Mr. Franklin asked.
We shook our heads. “We’re sorry,” I mumbled. “That’s why we wanted to hoe your corn. To make things right.”
For a long time he just stared at us without saying anything. I could feel little drops of sweat trickle down my back. And a fat, pesky fly kept buzzing around my head, but I didn’t slap at it or anything.
Finally he took his toothpick from his mouth, flipped it into the dirt, and said, “Thanks, boys.” He even sounded nice. “I appreciate what you’ve done. Telling me about the light is more important than hoeing my corn.” He actually smiled. “Everybody makes mistakes, but only those who are really grown-up take the blame for them and make up for them.”
When Randy and I finally left the Franklin place, that dark, ugly feeling inside us was gone. I knew that that night I wouldn’t have any trouble saying my prayers or going to sleep.

Jeanne serves as a Young Women adviser. Several months ago she learned about an upcoming activity for the youth in the ward: hiking to a place called Malan’s Peak. She was excited because she had recently set a goal to make that climb.
When she arrived at the trailhead, her good friend Ashley approached her. Linking arms with Jeanne, she offered to hike with her, saying, “I’ll go with you.” Ashley, who was 16 years old at the time, had some physical challenges that made it difficult for her to climb very fast. So she and Jeanne walked slowly, noticing Heavenly Father’s creations: the rocks on the mountain peak above them and the flowers all around them. Jeanne later said, “It really didn’t take me long to forget about my goal of hiking to the peak, for it soon became an adventure of another kind—an adventure to point out the beauties along the path, many of which I would have missed had I just hiked to reach the goal of Malan’s Peak.”
As Jeanne and Ashley continued hiking, far behind the rest of the group, they were joined by Emma, another young woman in the ward, who had decided to wait and walk with them. Emma added to their enjoyment. She taught them a song and provided extra support and encouragement. Jeanne recalled: “We sat and rested, we sang, we talked, and we laughed. I was able to get to know Ashley and Emma in a way I wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise. It wasn’t about the mountain that night—it was about much, much more. It was about helping each other along the path, one step at a time.”
As Jeanne, Ashley, and Emma hiked and sang and rested and laughed together, they probably weren’t thinking, “Hey, we are keeping our covenants right now.” But they were keeping their covenants. They were serving each other with love, compassion, and commitment. They were strengthening each other’s faith as they encouraged and ministered to one another.

Maybe we don’t know a widow whose home needs paint or a new neighbor on our street. But promptings will come, encouraging us to do something good for someone. When we lived in Idaho, we enjoyed doing little things for “Uncle Joe,” the ward’s favorite pioneer. After we moved, we remembered him occasionally and thought that we really should write a letter to brighten “Uncle Joe’s” day. The idea began pressing on my mind, and finally we mailed a note to him. But it was too late. Only one day later we received word that “Uncle Joe” had passed away. An opportunity for service had slipped by because we had ignored a first impulse.

Old as well as young have benefited from Chea’s desire to share his newfound knowledge. His neighbor, Sophon Heng, a mother of four, and her elderly mother Hong Heng were baptized as a result of Chea’s efforts. Sophon recalls, “Chea was so kind to us. He asked us if we would like to meet two men who would teach us and make us happy. When we said yes, Chea and the elders came to our home each week and taught us the gospel.”

I was discussing options for my Eagle project when I heard about the tsunami that had caused widespread devastation on the island of Samoa. I also learned that a sister in our ward, Savili Martin, would be traveling to Samoa with her family to visit relatives during the Christmas holidays. While I realized that the main concern of the people of Samoa was to rebuild and make the best of what they had, I also knew that all children love to receive gifts, and I felt inspired to organize a service project to provide Christmas presents to the children whose lives had been affected by the disaster. Although the gifts wouldn’t be extravagant, I felt that this project would be a blessing to the children and would help ease the burdens of their parents.
I worked with the Scouts in my ward to start a Christmas stocking gift drive. So many people were eager to help with this project. The Scouts and Young Women in my ward helped pass out flyers and collect donated gifts. We received donated material to make the stockings. My family and another family in the ward made the stockings, and the girls at the Primary activity days in our ward stuffed them. We gave all the gifts too big to put into stockings to the school district’s Project Help for Christmas.
We completed the project in time for the James and Savili Martin family to take the boxes of stockings with them to Samoa, where they gave the stockings to the Primary children.
When Sister Martin and her family returned to Arizona, she brought back a video of the children receiving their Christmas presents. I felt so warm inside when I saw how grateful every child was for his or her gift. One young boy in particular was wrapping his little arms around his Christmas stocking, making sure everybody knew it was his. Their appreciation and excitement more than compensated for all the hard work put into this project. The Spirit was strong after we watched the video, and I felt that the Lord blessed us in our efforts to help and serve His children.

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.

How the city came to be is a story of faith and sacrifice. In 1839, the Saints were forced out of Missouri and followed the Prophet Joseph Smith and his family to the little town of Commerce, Illinois. Here Joseph bought land to establish a settlement, a city that would be called Nauvoo.
For nearly seven years, the city grew and became one of the most pleasant in the area. But mobs harassed the Saints, making it impossible to continue living in Nauvoo. On a freezing day in February 1846, families packed their wagons, lined up along Parley Street, and prepared to cross the river on the ice or by barge, leaving behind their homes and temple. This exodus continued until the Saints were driven out of Nauvoo in September. They were determined to find a place where they could worship as they pleased.

A young woman found that she had developed a spirit of criticism. She felt that this was hampering her spiritual growth. As she partook of the sacrament, she promised the Lord that she would not criticize anyone in her family for one week.

Each week she renewed her effort and asked for the Spirit to be with her. She overcame this weakness, though it was not easy and progress was slow. Her friends now use her as an example of one who never speaks unkindly of others.

D. J. Holland doesn’t have a zigzag haircut anymore. Nor does he have any scars from the lightning that struck him a few summers ago in Daniel, Wyoming. But he still has a testimony of the power of prayer and of the priesthood.
He remembers the dark sky and the distant lightning flashes as he worked on his grandfather’s ranch that August afternoon when he was 17. He had just brought in his last truckload of baled hay from the wide, open fields.
“I knew it was going to rain,” recalls D. J., “but it never crossed my mind that the storm would threaten my life. I just wanted to get as much work done as I could before the rain came.”
D. J. parked his semi behind another hay-filled truck, driven there by his younger cousin Ross Varner. Then he hurried into the barn. There he helped Ross and their grandfather Ron Wagstaff hoist the bales into place with a huge hay fork on a backhoe tractor.
“After a few minutes Grandpa asked me to go out to the cattle feeder, which was about 100 feet away, and clean out the strings,” says D. J. “These are plastic ties which are taken off the bales and left in the feeder. They need to be cleaned out before spring so the animals can use the feeder before the grass grows high enough to graze.
“The bars on the feeder were metal, a perfect target for lightning,” says D. J. “But I didn’t think about that until it was too late.”
While D. J. cleaned up the strings, Ross and his grandfather worked fast to get the hay unloaded before the rain came and the lightning grew worse.
“Storms come up quick there,” recalls Ross. “And after what had happened in the past, we usually headed for cover any time we saw lightning. Lightning killed a white horse that Grandpa had given to me about two years before,” he continues. “It also hit a big barn that was full of hay and expensive tools. It burned to the ground.
“That day as we unloaded the hay, we heard a few faraway rumbles of thunder. Then suddenly we heard a big one that was really close,” remembers Ross. “It kind of spooked us, and we said we’d better go in. We looked around for D. J. and couldn’t see him. We decided he’d probably gone back to the house.”
Ross and his grandpa jumped into the small Honda and started for the ranch house about a city block away. As they pulled out, they saw something startling—two boots sticking up from a pile of dirt. D. J.! Quickly they drove there, fearing the worst. There lay D. J., unconscious. Most of his shirt was gone. A zigzag mark on his bare chest looked as though it had been drawn with a black marker. His baseball cap lay several feet away.
Ross and Grandpa lifted his limp six-foot-four frame into the little Honda as quickly as they could.
“It was pretty scary,” recalls Ross. “Grandpa dropped me off at the house, and I called the doctor in Pinedale to tell him Grandpa was bringing D. J. in. Then I called Salt Lake City to tell his mom and dad and also my mom and grandma. I was really nervous.”
On the way to the clinic, D. J. gained consciousness.
“When I woke up in the back of the car,” says D. J., “I was confused and didn’t know what was happening. I was numb. I couldn’t move. I asked, ‘What happened? Where are we going?’ My grandpa kept patting me and saying that I was going to be all right.”
At the clinic, medical personnel put D. J. on a gurney, they cut his shredded shirt from his body, and they stuffed cotton into his bleeding ear.
“They put me in a restraint that clamped around my forehead and down my body in case I had neck and back injuries,” says D. J. “Apparently the lightning had knocked me a few feet.”
The Pinedale doctor suggested that an ambulance transport D. J. to a larger clinic in Rock Springs for further treatment. By the time he arrived in the nearby Wyoming city, D.J’s parents, Douglas and Jennifer Holland, were there to meet him.
When the emergency room physician examined D. J., he found a severely burned right ear, much of his sandy-colored hair above the ear melted off, and a face scarred with burns. Finger-like projections all down his body resembled burst capillaries. The physician, amazed that D. J. had survived, arranged to have him taken to the University of Utah Medical Center burn unit in Salt Lake City.
During the 90-minute ride to the Salt Lake hospital, D. J. was awake and aware of the trip. In his room a few hours later—in the middle of the night—a crowd of worried family members gathered around his hospital bed.
“The room was full,” D. J. fondly remembers. “My parents and four sisters and my grandparents were there. Ross and other cousins and aunts and uncles were there. My grandpa gave me a priesthood blessing. Grandpa blessed me that I would completely recover from the accident, and that I would have no scars or ill effects. After the blessing I had no doubt that I would be okay.”
During his 24-hour hospital stay, D. J. learned that besides the extensive burns on his body, he had a seriously damaged eardrum. He later learned that sometimes the eardrum will rupture because of the loud percussion of thunder.
But that didn’t worry D. J. He did know he needed to do something about his burned-off hair. The barber had an appropriate idea. He shaved D. J.’s head, except for a zigzag, lightning-bolt strip down the center.
During the next few weeks D. J. returned to the hospital several times to have his burns checked. They were healing. Then he went to an ear specialist. This doctor told the family that the burned-out eardrum probably wouldn’t mend and that he might have to graft in a new one. Only time would tell.
Just two weeks after the first visit with the specialist, D. J. went back.
“This time the doctor was really surprised,” D. J. says. “He found that my eardrum was actually growing back. It wasn’t completely healed yet, but it was growing back. It was a miracle.”
Today, D. J.’s burns have completely healed. He has no scars on his face or body, and he has no hearing loss. He even has to stop to think which is his damaged ear. His hair also has grown out. But most of all, he has a very strong testimony of the power of prayer and of the priesthood.
“I said a lot of prayers back then, and so did my family,” says D. J. “But mostly I knew that Grandpa had given me an inspired priesthood blessing.”
Editor’s Note: D. J. is now married and living in Salt Lake City. Ross recently finished his freshman year at Pepperdine University in Malibu, California. He is preparing for a mission.

Her sister María del Pilar said, “I have a testimony that this is the true church, and I am very happy to be here. My whole family has changed since we joined the Church. My father drank too much, and since we have been in the Church we have been very happy in my family, and my father doesn’t touch wine. We seem to be much more united. I love family home evening. I like everything about the Church, but the unity within our own family is the best thing. We love each other and treat each other kindly. Even though the kids in my school won’t have anything to do with me since I joined the Church, I am very happy to be in it. I wouldn’t leave it for anything.”
She added, “There were two or three weeks when we stopped going to church. I don’t know how my sister felt, but I felt as if something was lacking physically. I didn’t feel well until I returned to church, and now I am happy to be here with all my brothers and sisters in the gospel.”

From the islands of the Pacific to the highlands of South America, I’ve seen boys working to turn dreams into reality. In fact, I’ve seen it so often that it merges into one image, one picture. It’s of a small boy, maybe nine or ten, in shorts, barefoot, and with a torn shirt. He’s on a patch of dirt, alone, and he’s looking down at a white-and-black-checkered ball. He takes a step toward it, his leg swings through, and the ball shoots off, about seven feet above the ground, where it might zip past a goalie into the net—except there’s no goalie and no net; there’s just the boy and the ball. And then he runs to the ball, puts it in place with his foot, and kicks it. And he does it over and over again.
You don’t know where he lives, but you know that he’ll take the ball home with him and that more than likely he keeps it near the place he sleeps. He sees it when he gets up and when he goes to bed. He may even dream about that ball shooting toward the goal.
The little boy in my memory keeps kicking that ball, over and over again. I can’t see a goalpost or a goalie. I can’t hear the roar of the crowd. But in his mind, he can. And so he kicks the ball, over and over again.

When you are 12 years old, life is hard enough. Caught between being a child and being a teenager, you struggle to really know who you are. I was in the middle of that struggle when my parents announced we were moving to the small town over the hill. The move was only a few miles away, but to me it was a world away.
I grew up in a suburban town of 30,000. I walked to school. The playground and the youth center were a block from home. And I went to the movies every Saturday.
Our new home was different. It was a rural town of 6,000—and planned to stay that way. I was a mile and a half (2.4 km) from school and had to ride the bus. My playground would become the woods and hills nearby. Saturday matinees would become only an occasional treat.
The move itself wasn’t so bad. I was adventurous and loved exploring. But I had a hard time fitting in at school. The other students had all grown up together, and I was the outsider. To make matters worse, I didn’t hide my emotions and was an easy target for bullies.
One of the biggest bullies I had to deal with was Tracy. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except Tracy is a girl.
I had dealt with boy bullies before. You either faced them or learned to avoid them. But Tracy seemed to be everywhere: in the hall, at lunch, in my classes. She had a way with insults that just chopped you to pieces. I dreaded seeing her anywhere.
Since it seemed I couldn’t avoid her, I had to face her, but I didn’t know how. A talk I heard at church changed all that. I don’t remember who was speaking, but I remember what was said. The speaker was talking about dealing with difficult people. He said, “If you can’t beat them, try loving them to death.” He got a laugh out of the congregation, but I thought about it for some time. I finally decided what to do with Tracy. I would “smother her with kindness.”
I started looking for Tracy the next day. When I saw her, I said, “Tracy, you look nice.” She looked shocked and stammered a thank you as we passed in the hall. I kept it up. Every time I saw her, I would pay her a compliment before she had a chance to say anything. The insults stopped, and my life gained a little peace.
A few months later, the school year was coming to a close. One of the closing activities was a dance in the gym during school hours. I went to it but didn’t feel like asking any girls to dance. Frankly, I had never asked a girl before. But then a girl came up to me and asked me to dance.
I was shocked to see that it was Tracy. I said yes, and we went out onto the floor. When the song was over, I said, “Thank you,” and Tracy went on her way.
I never did see her again. She moved away that summer. I hope she fit in at her new school more easily than I had. But I learned that day that my plan had worked. Where I had an enemy, I found a friend.

When you think of Argentina, you might picture cattle ranches and cowboys. But Hugo Lopez lives in the city. He lives in Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina—one of the largest cities in South America. Hugo is a member of the Palermo Ward, Buenos Aires Argentina Belgrano Stake, which covers a large section of downtown Buenos Aires. This means that his home, his school, and his ward meetinghouse are all located among the skyscrapers and busy traffic of this city of nearly 14,000,000 people.
Hugo, age 10, was born in Buenos Aires, but he also lived in Santiago, Chile, for two years. He is the youngest child in the family and has an older brother and sister. His sister is married and has two children. Hugo is very proud to be an uncle so young!
Hugo is in the fifth grade. He walks to his school, which is not too far from his apartment. From the street, the school looks like many of the other big buildings in the city, but hidden behind the tall double doors are classrooms that fill two stories and surround an outdoor courtyard and recreation area in the center of the building. When school is dismissed each day, hundreds of students with uniform white jackets swarm through the halls and out into the street. It is sometimes difficult to tell the teachers from the students, as they also wear the same white-jacket uniforms.
Because he wants to be a good student, Hugo works very hard at his schoolwork, and his studies keep him busy every day. He tries very hard to do the things he knows are right and to be a good example. He is the only member of the Church in his school, and he has learned it can be difficult to be the only one in a group who wants to choose the right. When his friends use bad language, for example, Hugo tries to show them a better way to talk. “It makes me feel sad when they won’t listen,” he says, “but I still try to choose the right way.”
Each week, Hugo looks forward to Wednesday and Friday afternoons. “After school on these days, I go to the Conservatorio de Música, a special music school,” Hugo says. “I am learning to play the flute, and I sing in the choir!” His eyes sparkle with excitement when he talks about music and what he is learning at the music school. He will study the flute for two years, and if he studies seven more years, he can become a teacher. Or he may specialize in a mechanics course in high school so he can earn money to fulfill his dream of going on a mission.
Actually, Hugo is working very hard right now to prepare for a mission. Bishop Sergio Lohrmann, of the Palermo Ward, says: “Hugo has a great knowledge of the gospel. He bears his testimony every month—and when he does, it strengthens the testimonies of the members of our ward as he tells of his love for Jesus Christ and for the gospel.”
When Hugo bears his testimony, he always thanks his mother and the teachers who have taught him to come to church, where he can learn. And he tells of a special prayer in his heart that his father will someday listen to the missionaries and come to church, where he can feel the love of all the ward members. Hugo feels very sad that his father and his brother are not interested in learning about the Church right now. He says: “My brother thinks that coming to church is a waste of time. But it’s not a waste of time—it is gaining eternal life!”
Hugo tries to set a good example at home, as well as at school. “I have a good relationship with my Dad. I know he has very sensitive feelings, and I try not to do anything to make him feel left out,” he says. “We sometimes go on walks together and just talk—these are our special times together.”
And, as a good missionary should, Hugo studies his scriptures. When asked about his favorite scripture, Hugo quickly turns to Joseph Smith—History 1:52–53 [JS—H 1:52–53] and begins reading aloud about the Prophet Joseph’s first experience seeing the gold plates. “I love the Joseph Smith story,” he says when he completes those verses. But one look at the pages of his scriptures shows that this is only one of his favorites. His scriptures look like a missionary’s—many important verses are marked clearly in bright colors, and he knows them well.
Each day brings opportunities for Hugo to be a missionary. Whether he is studying his scriptures, setting a good example for his friends at school, or going on long walks with his father, he tries to always do and say the things he has been taught.
So each Sunday, Hugo and his mother will walk again through the busy streets of Buenos Aires to attend their Church meetings and to learn more about the gospel. And—if it happens to be a fast Sunday—Hugo will bear his testimony!