Gospel Story Finder

This point came forcibly to mind when I was serving as a bishop. A bishop in a small town in Arizona called me and explained that one of his ward members was coming to my area to attend her brother’s funeral. Desiring her to have the strength of the Church in this time of need, he asked if I would accompany her to the funeral. I agreed and attended the service, held in a funeral home and conducted by a local Protestant minister. Expecting to hear words of comfort, I was shocked to hear expressions of doubt and confusion about the role and mission of Jesus Christ. Clearly this man lined up on the side of the proposition that Jesus was a mere man.

I recently was asked to substitute teach my ward’s 12- and 13-year-old Sunday School class. I asked my 13-year-old son, Jacob, to help me teach. We made a lesson plan together. Jacob took the first half of the lesson, showed a short video, shared scriptures related to our topic, and asked thoughtful questions. Jacob also asked the class members what they were feeling and helped them recognize the Holy Ghost.

In the second half of the class, I had the class members teach each other the First Vision. We then invited them to teach the First Vision to their families in family home evening. After the class we sent an email to the parents informing them of our invitation.

When I asked Jacob how he felt about the lesson, he said, “It was really good. I know the Spirit was there because I didn’t think my classmates could answer our questions, but they did.”

Carlos was just about your size when his parents sent him to Mexico to stay with his grandmother. Carlos’s family was moving to a different part of Colorado, and Carlos’s father told him that as soon as they had found a new house and moved into it, they would send for him.
Carlos’s Uncle Pablo drove him to Mexico. They traveled over hot, dusty roads and through deserts and mountains. Finally, in one little village next to the mountains, his uncle smiled at Carlos and said, “We’re here.”
As they pulled up in front of a tiny white adobe house, chickens scattered in every direction, flapping their wings and squawking at the car and its passengers.
An old lady came out of the house. She had dark brown skin and white hair. Carlos’s uncle threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Carlos,” his uncle said, “do you remember your grandmother?”
“Bienvenido (welcome), Carlos.” The woman smiled at him.
Carlos just stood there. He hadn’t been with his grandmother since he was a baby, and he didn’t remember her at all. Finally he looked up at his uncle. “Uncle Pablo, I don’t want to be here!” Carlos whispered, even though he knew his grandmother couldn’t understand English.
“Now, Carlos, remember that you agreed to give it a try here. It’s just for a little while,” Uncle Pablo said. “Here, see if you’re strong enough to carry this into the house.” Pablo took the old, battered suitcase out of the car and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos dropped the suitcase just inside the door. He walked through both rooms of the house. The wooden furniture looked strange to him, as did the pictures with beads hanging from them on the walls. In the middle of the larger room stood a tall, wooden machine with rows of yarn going up and down; on the floor around it lay several balls of colorful yarn.
Carlos walked out the back door and into the cooking shed, where black pots and pans hung on the wall and firewood was piled in the corner. He saw that his uncle and grandmother were still talking, and he decided that somehow he’d think of a way to get his uncle to take him back to Colorado.
Carlos went through the backyard to the other side of the house. He saw some boys playing in the street and walked closer to watch them. Suddenly a dog ran up and started barking at him. The boys stopped playing, and one of them called the dog. They all yelled a greeting to Carlos, but he couldn’t understand them. They called again, and when he still didn’t respond, they started to laugh.
Carlos turned and ran away from them. I can’t help it if I don’t understand Spanish! he thought.
Carlos ran through the village and didn’t stop until he’d climbed a small hill. From the top of the hill he could see his grandmother’s house. “Oh no!” he agonized. “Uncle Pablo’s car is gone!”
The sinking sun had turned the faraway clouds into a red, orange, and pink sunset before Carlos returned to his grandmother’s house. She was busy making dinner in the cooking shed. When she looked up and saw Carlos, she put down the bowl she was holding and grasped his shoulders. “Carlos!” she cried, then went on excitedly in Spanish. Carlos didn’t understand her words, but he understood that she had been worried about him and that he wasn’t to wander off again without telling her. Grown-ups are all alike in every language, Carlos decided.
During dinner Grandma tried teaching him the names of the things that she pointed to: mesa (table), plato (plate), tenedor (fork), pan (bread), frijoles (beans), arroz (rice), limonada (lemonade). Carlos just picked at his food. When his mother made Mexican food, it was always a treat, but now all he wanted was a hamburger with catsup and mustard and pickles.
After dinner Grandma worked at her loom by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, weaving fabric from the colorful yarns. As she worked, she sang softly and looked up every few minutes to smile at Carlos. Carlos sat on the floor watching his grandmother, wishing that she had a television set.
Grandma let Carlos sleep in the only bed in the house. She covered him with a sheet, let down the mosquito netting, then tucked its edges under the mattress. “Buenas noches (good night), Carlos.” She went into the other room and put out the lamp.
Darkness closed in on Carlos. Crickets chirped nearby. He turned over and looked out the window at a bright star and wondered if that same star was shining down on his parents. All day he had fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them anymore. Soon he was sobbing out of control.
Grandma lighted the kerosene lamp again and came into the room. Lifting the mosquito netting and sitting on the bed next to Carlos, she pulled him up into her arms. “Carlos, Carlos.” She put her soft cheek against his forehead and gently rocked back and forth, humming softly.
“I want my dad … and my mom,” Carlos sobbed.
Grandma got up, took his hand, and led him to a wooden chest in the other room. From the chest she took brightly colored fabric and soft-colored dresses and placed them aside. Then she took out what looked like a small, woven blanket with broad stripes of green, red, white, and orange. One of the corners was slightly burned. She held it out for Carlos to take. “Sarape (serape),” she said.
Then the old woman brought out something wrapped in white lace. She took off the lace, revealing a book. Smiling at Carlos, she opened the book so that he could see it. Black and white photographs filled each page. She turned the pages slowly, smiling at pictures of a bride and a groom and babies. Pointing to a picture of a young boy, she said, “Tu papi (your daddy).”
Carlos looked closely at the picture. It was like looking at himself. It was his father, standing with the same sarape over his shoulder. Also in the picture was a beautiful young woman with her arm around him.
Carlos ran his fingers over the coarse fabric of the sarape. His father’s fingers had probably felt this fabric the same way when they were the same size as Carlos’s were now.
He looked up from the picture at his grandmother. She wore her white hair pulled back in a bun—the same way it was in the picture—only then her hair had been black. She’s still pretty, Carlos decided.
As he looked at his grandmother, she smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek too. Suddenly Carlos understood that she loved his father as much as he did and that she was as lonely for him as he was.
“Grandma,” Carlos said simply, putting his arms around her.
Tears came to both their eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.
When Grandma had tucked Carlos back into bed, she placed the sarape on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Carlos said, smiling up at her. “Everything is going to be good, I can tell.”
Grandma smiled at Carlos, then bent down and gently kissed him good night. “Te quiero mucho (I love you a lot), Carlos.”

Soccer may be Raphael’s sport of choice, but volleyball is most definitely his game. And he is really good at it. He is so good, in fact, that he played in the final game of the high school volleyball nationals. “That,” Raphael says, “was one of the three happiest days of my life.”
It was a friend who introduced Raphael to volleyball. In 2001 a teammate on his soccer team in Recife pointed out that some private high schools offer volleyball scholarships. At the time, Raphael was trying for a soccer scholarship but found his physical assets kept him from playing at the level the coaches wanted. But he seemed to have an unexplored talent for volleyball. “So I played volleyball until I got good at it,” he says. He became so good that he was able to secure a full scholarship to a private high school.
At school, he played in the Recife city championships, then in the regionals in northeast Brazil, one of the most important tournaments in the country. But his success didn’t end there. Not long afterward, he was asked to join the Pernambuco State team to prepare for the national high school tournament. His team won almost all its games, losing only in the final match. He has the medals to show for it.

I wonder how many of you, like myself, always have a ’To Do’ list on the go? The first one I can remember doing was for my GCSEs and consisted of how many hours I should spend revising each subject. In the years since it has included tasks to do around the house, things for our family, household finances, work, church or spiritual related activities and always things to do connected to whatever calling I hold. I remember a time when I was in my early 30s and feeling utterly overwhelmed when I looked at the huge list before me. We had 4 young children, Ash was on the stake presidency and I was stake Young Women president. On that day I was prompted to read an article written by the then Young Women General President, Sister Ardeth G. Kapp, and one sentence in the talk changed the way I felt that day and in all the days since. She said, “We live in a time when we can do more, have more, see more, accumulate more, and want more than in any time ever known. The adversary would keep us busily engaged in a multitude of trivial things in an effort to keep us distracted from the few vital things that make all of the difference.”
That’s the key, isn’t it? To focus on the few things that could really make a difference. But how do we know what the few things are? Our personal relationship with the Lord and our family are probably at the top the majority of the time. But what else?
Twenty-three year old Tom Monson, a relatively new bishop, before leaving home that night, had received a telephone call informing him that an older member of his ward was ill and had been admitted to the hospital for care. Could the bishop, the caller wondered, find a moment to go by the hospital sometime and give a blessing? The busy young leader explained that he was just on his way to a stake meeting but that he certainly would be pleased to go by the hospital as soon as the meeting was concluded.
Now the prompting was stronger than ever: “Leave the meeting and proceed to the hospital at once.” But the stake president himself was speaking at the pulpit! It would be most discourteous to stand in the middle of the presiding officer’s message, make one’s way over an entire row of brethren, and then exit the building altogether. Painfully he waited out the final moments of the stake president’s message, then bolted for the door even before the benediction had been pronounced.
Running the full length of the corridor on the fourth floor of the hospital, the young bishop saw a flurry of activity outside the designated room. A nurse stopped him and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
“Yes,” was the anxious reply.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The patient was calling your name just before he passed away.”
He vowed then and there that he would never again fail to act upon a prompting from the Lord. He would acknowledge the impressions of the Spirit when they came, and he would follow wherever they led him, ever to be “on the Lord’s errand.”
In 1 Nephi 11:1 it says that Nephi sat pondering in his heart what he should do. He wasn’t pondering whilst reading, hunting or cooking. Nephi sat specifically to ponder and he waited for the Spirit to prompt him on what he should do.
I am currently serving in the Relief Society, so when a sister’s name comes to mind, I try to ponder like Nephi and allow myself time to pause. And then to follow the promptings that come – sometimes it’s as simple as a text to say: "Thinking of you.” “How are you doing?” “Love you" or it might be a phone call or a personal visit. What I do know is that when I have followed the promptings of the Spirit it has always been the right thing to do. I know that those I have contacted have needed to feel the love and care of the Saviour through His promptings to me.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf said, “In the end, the number of prayers we say may contribute to our happiness, but the number of prayers we answer may be of even greater importance. Let us open our eyes and see the heavy hearts, notice the loneliness and despair; let us feel the silent prayers of others around us, and be an instrument in the hands of the Lord to answer those prayers.”
I pray that I may always listen to my Heavenly Father as He whispers His purpose to me and that I might be brave and noble enough to carry out those things. I know the Lord lives and that we are part of the Lord’s church on this earth today. And that each of us has a special purpose to fulfil for Him at this time. We can know that purpose as we pray and follow Him in all that we do. I testify He lives and He loves us.

When my sister, Nancy, and I were teenagers, we regularly attended our local church. But we began to feel that something was missing, so we decided to investigate other churches.
That summer my sister and brother visited a booth at the Canadian National Exhibition where missionaries were showing a movie called Ancient America Speaks. After watching the movie, they signed up for a free copy of the Book of Mormon. I can still remember the excitement in my sister’s voice as she announced to my mother and me that Christ had visited the American continent.
The missionaries dropped off a Book of Mormon to my sister and asked her if she would like to learn more about the Church. That was how we both were taught the gospel.
More than a year after Nancy and I were baptized, she began dating a young man named Luke. He had a bubbly personality and seemed to radiate love and excitement. At the time Nancy met him, he was looking for direction in his life and was eager to take the missionary discussions when Nancy told him about the gospel. His sister, Leonarda, also was interested in being taught.
Although Luke and Leonarda agreed with most of what was presented, they had trouble accepting that Joseph Smith was a prophet. Once they gained a testimony of Joseph Smith then everything else (the Book of Mormon, the restoration of the gospel, and the gospel principles taught by the prophets) would fall into place.
They came to our home to be taught by the elders. Once again the discussion centered on Joseph Smith. One of the elders suggested that we should each take a turn asking Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet and then listen silently for a minute for the answer.
I won’t forget the feeling of peace that came into that room and touched each of our hearts as the Spirit bore witness to each of us that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord. For some of us a testimony was gained that night; for others the truth was reaffirmed. Luke accepted baptism and Leonarda was baptized a few years later with her parents’ approval.
Since that night the Spirit has borne witness to me many times of the truthfulness of other gospel principles. But this experience stands out in my mind because it was one of my first experiences with personal revelation from a Heavenly Father who loves me. I learned that night the truth of the counsel found in Matthew 7:7, “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” [Matt. 7:7]

In reality, that kind of precision often requires mastery of some pretty complex technology on a modern bow. You start coming across terms like stabilizer, sight, clicker, and more. “My friends are sometimes shocked at all the gear,” says LaNola P., a 17-year-old from California with a true talent for archery. “It’s a lot harder than you would think.”
LaNola has been involved in archery since she was six years old, with her dad as her coach and shooting partner. Over the years she’s won competitions and set national archery records. Archery hasn’t been her only focus, however. She keeps the gospel at the heart of all she does, even when that means getting out of bed at 4:00 a.m. to attend 5:25 a.m. seminary. “The gospel allows me to keep things in perspective,” says LaNola. “I know my strength comes from Heavenly Father.”

My first account is a cautionary one, reminding us that not every maternal effort has a storybook ending, at least not immediately. That reminder stems from my conversation with a beloved friend of more than 50 years who was dying away from this Church he knew in his heart to be true. No matter how much I tried to comfort him, I could not seem to bring him peace. Finally he leveled with me. “Jeff,” he said, “however painful it is going to be for me to stand before God, I cannot bear the thought of standing before my mother. The gospel and her children meant everything to her. I know I have broken her heart, and that is breaking mine.”

Now, I am absolutely certain that upon his passing, his mother received my friend with open, loving arms; that is what parents do. But the cautionary portion of this story is that children can break their mothers’ heart. Here too we see another comparison with the divine. I need not remind us that Jesus died of a broken heart, one weary and worn out from bearing the sins of the world. So in any moment of temptation, may we “behold [our] mother” as well as our Savior and spare them both the sorrow of our sinning.

In all of the years Brigham Young was a boy, he owned just one pair of shoes. They were his Sunday pair, and he wore them only at church.
Brigham had ten brothers and sisters, and their father saw that each child learned to work hard. His mother was extremely ill, and she died when Brigham was still a young boy. Because the family was very poor, the Young children often did not have enough to eat.
Lorenzo: Brigham, I’m so hungry my stomach aches.
Brigham: I know, Lorenzo. But we have to finish this stack of wood, or we’ll be cold as well as hungry.
Brigham also learned to be brave. Years later, after his conversion and baptism, his bravery kept the Church strong.
Man: Joseph is a fallen [now false] prophet. David Whitmer should take his place.
Brigham: Joseph is a true prophet, and I know it. You cannot destroy the authority of a prophet of God.
After an angry mob killed Joseph, Brigham Young bravely led the Church in Nauvoo.
President Young: Faithful Saints, we must finish the temple. We need to receive of its blessings before we depart for the West.
Later, as the Saints struggled through cold, mud, and hunger on the way to the Salt Lake Valley, President Brigham Young raised their spirits.
President Young: Let us hear the brass band and the fiddle. We’ll have a dance!
Boyhood trials had taught President Young to endure.
Man: Great idea, Brother Brigham!
If you’d like to learn more about President Brigham Young, do the “President Brigham Young Crossword” on page 23.

It wasn’t until 1880 that the first missionaries of the Church entered Finland. At this time Finland was a province of Czarist Russia, and officials soon jailed the elders. However, Anders Johansson, a local fisherman, and his wife and daughter were converted and baptized into the Church. When missionaries returned to Finland after World War II, the grandchildren of Anders Johansson met them, having remained faithful to the gospel.

I am one of 11 children. As I grew up, my parents taught us the principles of the gospel in our home. We worked hard milking cows, feeding chickens, moving sprinkler pipe, and taking care of animals. Summers were spent planting, weeding, harvesting, and preserving fruits and vegetables. We were active in church, school, and sports. There was never enough time to get everything done. But our parents always insisted on us waking up early each morning for family scripture study and prayers before we went our separate ways. Through the years, I felt that feeling of warmth and love reminding me who I was and that everything would be all right.

Looking for a cheap project with a big reach, the group harnessed the power of sidewalk chalk. They obtained approval from the city and set out. “We went downtown and wrote kind messages on the sidewalk with chalk,” says Isabelle C., a 15-year-old Lutheran. “When we finished, we left some chalk and wrote a message saying ‘write some more’ so other people could keep writing kind messages. This was my favorite project because I knew the messages we wrote would make someone smile. And they made me smile!”

A rest home may not seem like the best place to go for a night of fun and action, but the young men and the young women of the Spokane Third Ward, Spokane Washington North Stake, found that with lots of enthusiasm and a great attitude, almost any place can be fun.
The youth donated items from home that were no longer in use (planter boxes, games, etc.), and then took them to a local rest home to “auction” to the residents there. Each youth was paired with a resident and given play money to “buy” items with.
“I wasn’t sure I would like this, but it was really fun,” says deacon Luke Shaw.
The youth enjoyed the activity so much, they are considering going once, going twice, going three times a year!

“Happy Birthday, Itte petit,” my mother whispered to me as we awoke early one morning in the Japanese concentration camp in Java, Indonesia. “You are nine years old—a big girl. Pretty soon we’ll be able to celebrate your birthday in freedom, with cakes and lemonade and ice cream. You’ll see!
“You have always been a special child, born to me because you have a destiny. You have come to earth to live because you have a goal to reach. There is a purpose for your life, and being in this camp is only temporary.” Softly, my mother insisted that some day the war would end and peace would prevail.
My older sister, younger sister, and younger brother had been with us in the camp for eighteen months—ever since Japanese soldiers had forced us from our home. Our three older brothers were in another camp. We knew that my father was in a camp in Japan or the Philippines because of his involvement in the resistance against the invasion of Indonesia.
I was depressed and lonely. The world was so unfair! We were confined behind barbed wire, infested with fleas and lice, and plagued with flies and mosquitoes. Each person was allotted only one and one-half meters of space in our cramped, hot building. People bickered and were unkind to each other, children were always crying, and we had to take turns going to the latrine.
“What will my tenth birthday be like?” I wondered. “Will I be free?” How I wished I could walk on soft green grass—roll in it, smell it! How wonderful it would be to sing if I wanted to, scream if I wanted to, or just be by myself!
One day, the need to be alone made me disregard my mother’s warning to stay close to our building. I wandered away, taking my only possession—a stick—with me. My mother often wrote on the ground with that stick, making a game of teaching us the letters. She also told us Bible stories and stories about things we used to do or things she had done as a child.
I was thinking about these “good old times” as I wandered farther and farther away from the main compound, toward the outskirts of camp and the feared barbed wires. Oblivious to my surroundings, I was dreaming about our old house in the mountains, my pony, and my toys. Oh, why had I left my doll—Pop Mientje—sitting in the chair when the soldiers came to take us away? I had been too frightened and too sleepy to think of my old rag doll, and I had left her at home. How I wished I had her now!
I also missed my nanny, the older Javanese woman who used to watch over me. When I had been frightened or had hurt myself it was my nanny—Baboe Kit—who had comforted and consoled me. I could still remember the feel of her sweet, soft hands caressing me, the smell of her fragrance, and the sound of her voice whispering consoling words. I even imagined that I could hear her call out to me: “Nonny Kitty, Kitty!”
But wait! Listen … It was not my imagination.
I heard it again: “Nonny Kitty, Kitty. Very carefully, look to your left. I am in the bushes. Don’t come too near. The barbed wire is very sharp, and they say there are land mines around here.”
Carefully, I turned my head and looked into the underbrush. There she was: my nanny!
“You have come to take me away from this awful camp?” I asked.
“No, Nonny. I have come to give you something because it is your birthday.”
I came closer, pretending to play with the stick on the ground.
“Nanny, please, I want to come with you. I hate it here. Please let me touch you. Oh, Baboe Kit, please!”
Her voice became stern. She told me to keep very still, to keep my voice down, and to listen to what she had to say.
“I brought you Pop Mientje to keep you company because baboes are not allowed in this camp, and it is too dangerous for a European child to live in the village. Always say your prayers to ask for strength to endure what you have to endure, because Allah is wise and all-knowing. He knows when the war will end and is only testing us to see if we can stay faithful and endure to the end. And the end will be sweet to us. Take Pop Mientje, and promise me that you will not lose her. Take her with you wherever you go. If you do that, she will bring you happiness one day.”
I knew that whatever Nanny told me was true, and I had learned to obey her at all times. But at that moment I needed her touch—no matter how dangerous it was. I shifted my position and crawled toward the barbed wires. She handed me Pop Mientje. Our hands touched. She stroked my hand.
“Oh, please take me with you! Please don’t go away!” I threw the doll aside and reached out for her with both hands, cutting my face as I brushed against the barbed wire to press my body closer to her. I could smell her fragrance. I closed my eyes, savoring the seconds of feeling her hands caress my face.
“Go, Nonny. Go now, quickly. Take the doll and go quickly. I have to go. Quickly!”
I was not quick enough. A sentry saw us. He saw her run away, and took aim and shot my nanny—my Baboe Kit—in the back. A gaping wound appeared, and she turned around and waved at me with her hand, as if to say, “It is okay!”
Amid the confusion of shouting sentries and screaming women that followed the shooting, no one paid attention to me. I stood there in shock, unable to move. Someone picked up Pop Mientje and handed her to me. I stooped to pick up the stick, and as I straightened up, I saw a Japanese soldier standing in front of me. He looked at me and whispered, “Go quickly.”
I ran all the way to our compound. I had been saved by my enemy—a Japanese soldier! My mother was waiting for me. She had been looking for me all over. When she saw me running toward her with Pop Mientje, she knew that I had seen Baboe Kit.
I told her what had happened. “If only I had been a little bit quicker! If I had not been so slow and had listened to her, Baboe Kit would be alive!”
My mother folded me into her arms and comforted me, telling me over and over again that what had happened was not my fault.
I wrestled with guilt for many years before I fully understood the meaning of Baboe Kit’s sacrifice. Meanwhile, I took Pop Mientje with me everywhere.

Locker Room Prayers—I asked Coach Landrum tonight if we could have prayer before our football games. We all just repeated the Lord’s Prayer, but we are united as a team. We don’t pray to win but to have the strength to be men on the field—using good sportsmanship, wishing no physical injury to either team, winning in the column of character and determination.
A Later Note: I played on many winning teams in elementary and high school. Never did I play on a team as united, as spirited, as our football team this year. It may be secondary that this was the first unbeaten, untied football season in our school’s history.

Sister Cook was parked in the driveway, the motor running. Molly hurriedly finished tying her Sunday shoes and ran for the front door.
She stopped midrun. Her scriptures were not on the table next to the door. “Where are my scriptures?” she called to Mom sitting in the living room.
“I don’t know. Sorry, honey.”
“They were right here,” Molly insisted. “Somebody moved them.”
“I guess you’ll have to find them later.”
Molly yanked open the door and ran to the waiting car. “Justin probably grabbed my scriptures,” she muttered angrily.
Three-year-old Justin liked snooping in his sister’s belongings. Her homework and books and baseball equipment were always disappearing. Later she’d find them in the strangest places. Her soccer shin guards ended up in the refrigerator once. Justin had put them in the vegetable bin. Sometimes it was funny.
But it wasn’t funny today. It never was on Sundays. Even though her Valiant A teacher picked her up every week for church, Molly felt like she was alone. She was the only kid in the ward whose family didn’t go to church with her.
On Saturday nights she set her alarm clock for 7 A.M. When it went off, she got up and took a quiet bath and fixed her own breakfast. Everybody else was still asleep, although sometimes Justin came out to the kitchen in his pajamas and ate a bowl of cereal with her.
By the time she left, Mom and Dad were in the living room, reading the Sunday newspaper, its pages spread out all over the couch. Later they would play tennis. In her mind Molly could imagine them hitting the ball back and forth across the net, laughing and enjoying the cool fall weather. Justin would be running after the stray balls and giggling.
Her parents never stopped her from going to church, but they never went with her, either. Most of the time Molly tried not to mind. But sometimes it hurt.
Mom and Dad had gone to a meeting at church only once—to see her baptism. Molly had insisted that she wanted to be baptized. She had been awfully disappointed that Dad wasn’t the one to baptize her. And afterward her parents had left without staying to visit with the other people in the ward who had attended.
Sister Cook always told Molly to give her family time to feel more comfortable with the ward members. Someday her parents would regain their testimonies that the gospel was true and would come back to church.
One Sunday morning Sister Cook had given a lesson about the bishop and the ward family. The bishop was like a father to the ward, she had said. He was there to help the ward members, to help and counsel them just as a father does. The members of the church were like brothers and sisters, and they could be like one big happy family.
Thinking of that had helped for a while, but when she looked around the chapel at all the families sitting together, Molly again felt sad. It just wasn’t the same sitting next to Sister Cook’s family during sacrament meeting.
Today, at the end of Primary, the Primary president, Sister Miller, passed out the speaking parts for the Children’s Sacrament Meeting Presentation. She gave Molly a folded slip of paper and winked at her. The paper read: “Your topic is ‘Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.’ Tell two or three reasons why your family is special to you.”
Molly read the paper twice on the way home. She felt as if someone had knocked the breath out of her. Why did Sister Miller give me a talk about families? I can’t do this assignment. Doesn’t she know how I feel? My family isn’t active at all. They don’t even like church! It isn’t fair!
When Sister Cook pulled up to her house, Molly mumbled good-bye, slammed the car door, and ran up the sidewalk. The entry hall shook when she slammed the front door too.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Mom asked. Still wearing her tennis clothes, she was putting the rackets and balls in the hall closet.
“Nothing.” Molly started for her bedroom, then turned back to look at her mother. “I have a part in the Primary Sacrament Meeting Presentation. I’ll get to speak at the pulpit, just like the bishop.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s in three weeks. Will you and Dad and Justin come see me give my talk?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “We’ll see.” She smiled and went into the kitchen to fix lunch.
That’s what Mom had said last year when Molly had had a part in the Book of Mormon program. But they hadn’t gone.
Molly almost crumpled up her piece of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. Then she remembered last year when she had told the story of Nephi building the ship. Nephi had believed that the Lord would help him, and he’d prayed for guidance to build a ship so that he and his family could cross the ocean. Well, that’s what she would do too. Just like Nephi, she would pray for help and the Lord would help her.
Suddenly Molly had a warm, peaceful feeling. She felt that the spirit of the Holy Ghost was with her, just as she had been promised.
As she spent the next three weeks preparing and practicing her talk, she started noticing the many things that her parents did for her and how much they loved her.
Mom fixed her favorite snacks, helped her with science projects, and always rushed to hug her when she came home from school. Dad played soccer and softball with her, and at bedtime he’d tell her the most wonderful stories. It was always a warm, special time for just the two of them. Even though Justin sometimes seemed like a pest, she was happy that he was her brother. They sang funny songs and giggled, read books, and played at the park together.
Finally the day of the program came. Sister Cook picked her up, and she sat in her assigned seat near the pulpit.
When the Primary children sang “I am a Child of God” and “I Lived in Heaven,” Molly felt close to her ward “family.” And she remembered how much Heavenly Father loved her. She had three wonderful families—a heavenly family, a ward family, and an earthly family!
When it was her turn to go to the microphone, Sister Cook gave her an encouraging smile. And when she started her talk, saying, “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family,” Molly was glad that Sister Miller had given her this talk. She didn’t feel hurt or angry anymore about going to church alone. Even though they didn’t come to church with her, she really did have a special earthly family.
Just then the back door to the chapel opened. Molly’s heart began to pound as Mom, Dad, and Justin quietly walked into the chapel and sat on the back row. They smiled at her, and she couldn’t help grinning back. She started her talk over again: “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.” And she knew that it was true.

Dominic tells of the unity that developed as he helped lead bonding experiences at the camp: “On the first night, we were supposed to have a testimony meeting in our small groups. I had to convince the young men in my group to come. We did some fun getting-acquainted activities first. None of us knew one another. But when we began bearing our testimonies, we started realizing that every one of us had things in common. Sharing testimonies made us stronger individually and as a group. The next day we walked together, laughing and talking, and we are still close to each other.”

Like the Semeonovs, other Soviets have learned of the restored gospel through friends outside the country. Among the earliest to be baptized were Yuri Terebinen and his wife, Ludmilla, of Leningrad. They joined the Church in the fall of 1989 in Hungary while visiting with friends. “We went to church with them,” says Yuri, “and felt something different in the people’s relationship with God and with each other. It seemed right that we should be free to communicate directly with God for ourselves, rather than through professional clergy. You are taught, and you teach; this brings you closer to God.
“For me, the rituals and language of other churches I had visited often came between me and God. Here, I felt intimately connected with Him, which made me also feel closer to people.”
When the Terebinens returned to Leningrad after being baptized, they relied on friends in Helsinki to put them in touch with the Finnish mission president, who at the time was Steven Mecham. President Mecham and his counselor Yusi Kempainen had already been visiting with members in Viborg and Tallinn. They visited with the Terebinens and other members in Leningrad. By December 1989, small branches of the Church were established in those three cities.
Yuri became the first branch president in Leningrad. Since then, the branch has been divided into two, with a total of over 160 members. There is now also a branch in Moscow.

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
How come you’re my friend?
Huh?
Well, I can’t run or ride bikes and stuff. And some people have trouble understanding me when I talk.
Yeah, I had trouble at first. But—I dunno—when I listened, it got easier. I guess I like your funny jokes. And we like a lot of the same stuff.
Game time’s over. How about a sandwich?
So how come you’re my friend?
I guess it started when those guys were picking on me and you stood up for me.
Then we talked. And I got to know you. And, well, I figure anybody who has a rubber chicken for a pet …
… needs at least one real friend.
I’m his pet?! I thought he was mine.

Brother Garner coaches the Alta High soccer team, but a leg injury sidelined Dene for his entire freshman soccer season. As soon as the leg was healed, the two of them were back practicing field goals, kicking late into the night until the goal posts were nothing but silhouettes against the lingering brightness of the summer sky, or even ghostly white prongs in the darkness. All summer long they worked, kicking and kicking and kicking the five old balls the coach had loaned to them.
Dene improved steadily, and during his sophomore year he kicked a 46-yarder. He kicked eight field goals and 15 PATs to become the season high scorer with 39 points.
Dene refuses to take all the credit for this success himself. The blockers that protect him get a big share, and his center Tony Johnson and holder Chuck Cutler each get a whopping portion. In fact, Dene insisted that the New Era mention them by name. “I work with a good holder and a good center,” he says. “I tell them exactly how I want the ball, and that’s the way they give it to me. They’re both team players.”
The season was no sooner over than he got out his soccer boots and began getting ready for the Alta soccer season. Dene knew that he would get no special treatment because his father was the coach. He would be the first to be called into line if the team was playing badly. “He knows that if he’s not performing, he’ll come off the field,” Brother Garner says. The season ended in disappointment, with the team missing a berth in the post-season playoffs, but Dene still reveled in the plain joy of playing soccer, his first love, working his left-footed wizardry like an echo of Moses Wood himself. In 12 games that season he scored 8 goals and racked up 13 assists.
But the day he hung up his boots, it was back to field goal practice again. Dene isn’t satisfied to merely be on the team. He has set a high goal for himself—to kick a 65-yarder, which would merely be the longest field goal ever kicked in a football game. To reach that goal he knows he must work long, hard hours. In addition to weight training and calisthenics, he must kick field goals five or six nights a week.
In a typical practice session Dene first stretches well to avoid injury. Then he starts out with from five to thirty PATs. He moves back five yards at a time, kicking from the middle of the field and both hash marks. He always pauses for a few kicks at the 37-yard hash marks in honor of the Bingham victory. He usually winds up the practice with some 50-yarders, having put up some 50 to 75 kicks.
Brother Garner is a hawk-eyed analyst of his son’s field goal kicking technique. “If he’s kicking the ball everywhere but where it should be, I’ll say, ‘You’re losing your style,’” Brother Garner explains. “I’ll say, ‘You’re trying to put too much into the kick and losing your style because of it,’ or ‘You’re dropping your shoulder or leaning too far over the ball.’ He accepts my advice. We’ve never had any bother.
“At first he had the bad habit of taking his eye off the ball. He wanted to see it go over the posts. That’s not your privilege when you’re a kicker. Your job is to keep your eye on the ball, clear the ball, and follow through. If you start lifting your head, you’re going to miskick the ball.
“When you’re attempting a goal, you haven’t time to think of the applause you’re going to get afterwards but must concentrate on the job at hand. If you’re thinking about the praise you’re going to get afterward, you’ll miss the kick and get nothing.” Dene has taken this advice to heart. When kicking, he is a study in concentration, even though he knows that several thousand pounds of armored muscle and bone are coming his way with very hostile intent.
It’s nice having one whole coach to yourself, especially if he’s your dad. It provides services you couldn’t expect from ordinary coaches. For example, Dene was really shaken when he had a kick blocked in one game. Brother Garner took him back out on the field after the game, while the stands were still emptying, and had him kick ball after ball from the same spot. He hit 48 before he missed one. Brother Garner then explained that it wasn’t his fault if a kick was blocked occasionally, and Dene went away with his confidence restored.
But Brother Garner didn’t leave it at that. He did something positive to help overcome the problem. He built a ten-foot-high barrier for Dene to kick over. As a result, Dene has learned to chip PATs or short field goals so high that Goliath would have a hard time blocking them.
Spending so many hours together in practice and games has strengthened the bonds between Dene and his father. “There are many things in life you can talk about on the football field a lot easier than in a father’s interview,” Brother Garner says. Of course, he has the father’s interview with all his children as well. “Besides becoming good at a game, Dene is learning gospel principles as we talk,” Brother Garner continues. “We communicate better and we’re overcoming barriers.”
Dene has two sets of proud grandparents in England who keep scrapbooks of his achievements and are always eager for news of his progress. His Grandfather and Grandmother Wood recently came to the states for a long vacation. They were able to see Dene play both football and soccer, and Dene was able to hear some stories of the old days again.
His granddad is both a cheerleader and a critic. “I’ve always believed in telling the truth,” he says. “When he deserves it, I praise him, and when he deserves it, I kick him in the pants.” It is a spring afternoon and Dene, his mother and father and grandmother and grandfather are sitting out on the front lawn. His grandfather smiles. “Wasn’t that a marvelous goal last night?” he asks. “Sometimes I tell him that he’s rubbish, but when he scores a goal like that, what more can you say? I’m proud of him, of course. He likes sports, and to me you can’t go wrong that way. A bit of sport and you’re on the right road. My daughter always writes to us in England and gives us an account of what he’s doing, and I share it with everybody. It gives me a tremendous amount of pleasure to see him excel.” He looks Dene over appraisingly and then adds, “He’s a fine looking lad, isn’t he?”
Dene goes into the house and proudly comes out with a treasured championship medal from his grandfather’s soccer days. As first grandson, he has received it as a birthright.
“I’ve always been proud of him,” his Grandmother Wood says. “He was our first grandson, and with me having three girls, it was really something that was delightful to have someone to carry on grandpa’s participation in sports. When Dene turned out to enjoy playing football, well of course it was just the thing. I knew grandpa would be delighted, which of course he was. I think sports give young men a good backing for life, a wider scope of give and take. If you’re a sportsman, you can both give it and take it, can’t you? And a team sport teaches you to play as a team and not be selfish. I’m proud of all my grandchildren.”
The talk turns to soccer strategy. Brother Garner and Grandfather Wood are both masters in the art. Both can “read” a soccer game like a book, and their advice to young soccer players is so much alike that it seems to be one person speaking. “If you want to play soccer, you’ve got to keep your eye on the ball and control it. If you bring it down in good control, you can spray your passes wherever you like. There should be none of this long kicking. You’ve got to control the ball. The moment you take your eye off the ball is the moment you lose it. You can watch the ball and still see your own foot and your opponent as well. And remember, it doesn’t matter who scores as long as the ball is in the net. A pass is entirely better than somebody blazing over the top of the net because he doesn’t have an angle to shoot at. If you pass to a man who scores a goal, that’s just as good as scoring yourself. When a team scores a goal, equal praise is due to every player—to the goalkeeper who pushed it out at just the right time, to the fullback who moved it down to the halfback, to the halfback who pushed it to the wing, to the wing who crossed it to the forward, and to the forward who just had to stick his foot out and pop it in. Young players must learn to hit the open man and then move to an open space for a return pass. A good player won’t follow the ball. He’ll see the players setting up and then go to where the ball is going to be, not where it is.”
Then there was talk of the family in England, where sport is also a family affair. Both the Garner and Wood sides of the family are prospering it seems. Both have sent young men to the continent to represent Yorkshire in rugby.
Finally, Dene’s mother Anne, as mothers will, offers some insight into another side of his character. “He’s good with other kids,” she says. “He gets along with everybody. He’s so generous and kind natured. At Christmas he spent all the money he had earned at his job, after tithing, for presents for the family—things he knew we needed. Giving seems to give him more pleasure than anything else. When he was just a little boy, if somebody gave him a sweet, he always asked for another one for his sister Lesa. He likes to listen and doesn’t say very much. He doesn’t show his emotions, but he feels things very deeply. I’m very proud of him. The first time he blessed the sacrament, it was such a special time. I wanted to run down and hug him and kiss him just like he was still my baby, but I realize that he’s grown into a young man.”
Indeed he has, and his two little brothers aren’t far behind him. Craig, 10, plays a fine center half in recreational league soccer and can already kick short field goals with deadly accuracy on the football field. Matthew, 7, is not far behind. Meanwhile, Dene’s sister Lesa, 15, plays on the ward softball team and on the volleyball team that won the stake championship, as well as being a high school cheerleader. Mom isn’t left out either. With her husband she coaches the recreational league team that Craig plays on and has a fine grasp of soccer strategy.
Of course, the family realizes that goals on the sports field are not the only goals that count. Dene serves as priests quorum secretary and is a few merit badges away from his Eagle Scout award. He is a member of a very Mormon family.
“I’m glad I’ve got the Church,” Dene says simply, “and I’m very proud of my ancestors. All my life I’ve listened to stories about their accomplishments, and I want to make them proud of me too. I don’t ever want to disappoint them.” It has been 17 years since a proud young father in Yorkshire blessed his little son to walk tall, but the promise is bearing fruit because of a proud heritage and because that father gave more than a blessing. He gave an example.