Gospel Story Finder

Now, it’s probably not as hard to remember the day you were baptized—your second birth. Listen to what Lan-Ting, a Beehive girl from the Philippines, wrote about her baptism: “I felt like I had been born again. What an extraordinary feeling of cleanliness, sinlessness! My mother’s tears flowed like a fountain of pearls, and I could tell these were tears of joy! My mother told me sincerely, ‘Lan-Ting, today I am relieved to say I can turn you over to the Lord. I trust He will accompany you along the roads of your life’” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

In 1959, I turned 8 and wanted to be baptised, but my father would not give his permission. I continued to attend Primary with all my Church friends, then at age 12 I started to attend MIA (which stood for Mutual Improvement Association) as it was then called. My friends obtained the Aaronic Priesthood and progressed from deacon to teacher to priest.
In those days, we met in a big house, and as members we were asked to raise money towards the building of a meetinghouse, and to also to work so many hours on the construction of the meetinghouse. Once I turned 15 and about to leave school, I decided to go on a building mission on the Worcester meetinghouse, as a site had been found. My parents were divorced by that point, and my mother kept me and gave me ten shillings a week pocket money. Whilst building the meetinghouse, I turned 16 and my father told me, “If you still want to join those Mormons go ahead.”
I told our then-branch president, President Smart, that my father had given permission for me to be baptised but that I had decided that as “I’ve waited this long, I’ll wait a little longer if I can be the first to be baptised in the new chapel.”
On March 10, 1968, the chapel was dedicated by President Cullimore. On the following day, Monday 11 March, I was the first person to be baptised in the Worcester meetinghouse, by Brother Ken Chapman. Followed by four others also getting baptised, I was then confirmed a member of the Church by Brother Des Gorman, who was the building supervisor in charge of the construction.

The angle iron clanged on the farmhouse porch as an old woman rattled a steel bar around the inside of the triangle. “Even Elias should be able to hear that,” she said.
He did. The old man in the timeworn poncho turned away from the chicken coop toward the house. “Too early for supper,” he said, peering through the haze of falling snow. Raising a bushy eyebrow, he absentmindedly picked up his hammer and started across the snow-muddied yard. Fixing the gate would have to wait until he saw what all the clamor was about. “Nothing worse than stopping a job when it’s half done!” he grumbled to a hen that scooted out of his path and under a motorcar.
He stopped at the porch and spoke to his wife. “What’s so important that I have to stop in the middle of my work? And what’s Ethel Kramer doing here?” he asked, gesturing to the Model A parked next to their house.
Grandma planted her hands on her hips. “You’ll have answers to both those questions if you’ll get yourself inside, Elias Palmer Thorton.”
Inside, he gasped at the sight of his granddaughter lying on the sofa, bruised and scraped from head to foot. “What happened to you?”
“Nellie,” she answered with a grunt of pain, turning to see him better as he brushed snowflakes from his often-patched, two-sizes-too-small poncho. “Mrs. Kramer saw me on the road and brought me home.”
Grandpa nodded a thank-you to the stout, red-haired woman. “Much obliged, Ethel.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “What did this Nellie do to get you so banged up?”
Twelve-year-old Melody’s eyes filled with tears. “I was walking home from school. She ran up behind me and took my umbrella. She said that since she was bigger than I was, she should have it. Then she laughed and pushed me hard. I tripped over something in the weeds and fell down the little hill by Sutter’s Bridge.” Her eyes narrowed with anger. “Ever since I came to live with you and Grandma, Nellie’s been making life hard for me.”
Grandpa nodded. “And what are you planning to do about it?”
“What can I do about it, Grandpa? I’d defend myself, but Nellie’s a lot bigger and meaner than me. She’d bust me up into little pieces if I tried to fight back. I hate her, Grandpa! I wish she’d never been born!”
Grandpa and Grandma exchanged concerned looks. “Hate is an ugly thing, Melody,” Grandpa said. “It can scar and bruise us inside a lot worse than any hurts we receive on the outside. Your grandma can cleanse and bandage those cuts and scrapes, and in a few days you’ll be good as new. But hateful feelings toward others are another thing. If we don’t doctor them, they grow and fester like a sore. And in the end they consume us, along with our chance of ever being truly happy.”
Melody looked confused. And angry. “So I should say, ‘That feels good, Nellie. Do it again!’?”
“Quite the contrary, Pumpkin,” the old man chuckled, patting her hand. “If it happens again, I’ll get on the phone on that wall over there and raise enough dust to plant a field of corn. But I don’t think it needs to happen again. It’s quite possible that Nellie is feeling bad about what she did.”
“Is that why she laughed so hard when I tumbled down the hill? Because she felt bad?”
Grandpa’s eyes bored deep into his granddaughter’s. “Someone who treats others the way Nellie treats you can’t be happy. My guess is that she’s a very unhappy person. And when people hurt inside, they often take it out on others. Maybe Nellie’s striking out blindly at an easy target because her pain is too big to face. And misery loves company, even if the only way to get it is by being unkind.”
“Maybe this, maybe that,” Melody protested. “All I know is that I’m being turned into a human punching bag, and I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I,” Grandpa said. “So I want you to do something about it.”
Melody looked dumbfounded. “I’m doing all I can, Grandpa. I try to stay away from her and not pay any attention to her. In fact, I pretend that she doesn’t even exist. But she keeps showing up to remind me that she’s real—as real as the bad names she calls me, and—”
Grandpa placed a wrinkled finger gently across her lips. “I want to tell you about an experience I had when I was about your age. Then I want you to apply what I learned, and if it doesn’t make a difference, then your grandpa will.”
Melody sighed and nodded slowly.
There was a long silence. Finally Grandpa stood with a grunt. “Well, I’d better get back out there and fix that gate before the hens are everywhere but in the coop.”
A few days later, he was in the barn repairing a plow when he saw Melody crossing the yard with a bigger girl, who seemed shy, even a bit uneasy, although the two were talking and laughing. As they passed the barn, Melody spied him through the partially open doors. She picked up a rabbit, handed it to the girl to pet, and told her that she’d be right back.
“Grandpa!” she said in a low, excited voice as she hurried inside, “that’s Nellie! She walked home from school with me. I’m going to show her the dress Grandma is helping me sew. Can she stay for supper, Grandpa? We can drive her home in the truck, and—”
“That’s the Nellie?” Grandpa interrupted. “What happened?”
“All she had in her lunch yesterday was half a piece of bread and a stick of candy. So I sat by her on the steps and shared my lunch with her. I gave her some of the blackberry strudel Grandma made, half my jar of goat milk, and—”
“She let you sit by her?” Grandpa interrupted again.
“I guess she was so surprised that she didn’t know what to say, so I just did. While we were eating, her voice got all funny, and she looked away. I think she was trying to wipe away a tear. When I asked her if she was all right, she said, ‘Haven’t you ever gotten something in your eye?’ Then today after school she asked if she could walk home with me. And here she is.”
Melody hugged her grandfather so hard that he dropped the wrench he was holding. “Thanks, Grandpa,” she said, pulling away and half hiding her face with a hand.
“What’s the matter, Pumpkin?”
Melody brushed a finger quickly across her cheek. “Haven’t you ever gotten something in your eye, Grandpa?” With that, she turned and hurried back to Nellie.
Grandpa watched the two girls stroll toward the farmhouse. “Well, how about that,” he said, taking out his handkerchief. “I have something in my eye too.”

It seems that every class has its black sheep, and my seminary class was no exception. One boy was a total loser in every sense of the word. At least it seemed that way.
He was scrawny and combed his greasy black hair straight down so that it covered his eyes and hid him from the world. Mockingly, I compared him to an ostrich who buried his head in the sand so he couldn’t be seen by others. He always sat at the back of the room, never voluntarily participating in any discussion. Friends were out of the question. He was a loner. I feel ashamed to say it, but I figured he couldn’t do much of anything, and I know many of the other students felt the same way. I was extremely surprised when he won the championship scripture chase award. I smugly thought that he just had more time to study because he wasn’t involved in anything else. The night of our seminary closing social proved how wrong my opinion of him was.
That evening remains indelibly engraved upon my mind. I arrived early at the church—a miracle in itself—and found him already there. Again I rationalized that his promptness resulted from a lack of having anything else to do. I greeted him with a perfunctory hello, then hurried to help the other “more friendly” kids set up chairs. Besides, I knew how he would react if I tried to start a conversation with him. First, his head would drop until his eyes became firmly attached to his switching feet. His shaking hands would nervously jiggle his car keys, showing how uncomfortable he felt. He always tensed up whenever I came near. Instinctively, I decided to avoid that awkward experience.
Then the time came for the party to begin. I was trying to round up the deafening herd of kids when I saw my teacher peek into the chapel. A smile of pure delight appeared on his face, like the expression one would find on the countenance of a miner at the discovery of gold. Indeed, a hidden treasure had been found.
Beautiful music floated out through the chapel doors—not just notes but feelings. The person playing the piano had been blessed with outstanding musical abilities. I looked in, expecting to see an adult practicing for a performance. Instead I was shocked to see that the piano player was the quiet boy who I had thought couldn’t do anything. One by one, the entire class crept into the chapel while he continued to play complete compositions—from memory—of Bach, Beethoven, and others. Painfully, my conscience reminded me of my critical judgment of him. I had pronounced him a nobody, simply because he was different from me. I felt superior to him. What a joke! Humbled, I realized he must have numerous other talents to which my abilities couldn’t even be compared. What a mistake it had been to think of him as a zero.
Someone coughed. Immediately, he glanced down, catching us like a bunch of kids with our hands in his cookie jar. We were devouring his musical treats without permission. Instantaneously, he flushed crimson, not from anger as I expected, but from embarrassment. He closed the lid of his music box and slowly left the stand. Thick compliments coated the air as he walked down the aisle and out of the chapel. Still red, he mumbled a humble thanks, not wanting any more of that sticky attention.
The seminary party went on to be a success with everyone laughing, joking, and acting crazy. (I should say acting normal.) That is everyone except me. Somehow that small incident changed me in a very big way.

In this conference just a year ago, President Thomas S. Monson shared an example of sacrifice in connection with temple service. A faithful Latter-day Saint father on a remote island in the Pacific did heavy physical work in a faraway place for six years to earn the money necessary to take his wife and 10 children for marriage and sealing for eternity in the New Zealand Temple. President Monson explained, “Those who understand the eternal blessings which come from the temple know that no sacrifice is too great, no price too heavy, no struggle too difficult in order to receive those blessings.”9

The bishops of both wards suggested many people who would enjoy a visit, and five were chosen for the initial project. Youth leaders contacted each of these people to see if they would be willing to be visited. One elderly lady burst into tears and said, “Visit? With me? I’ve been so lonely.” Another replied, “The young people are so beautiful! I’d just love for them to come.” All five were eager to participate.
So the visits were scheduled, the preparations made.
Inside the house of the white curtains, the three young ladies complimented their hostess on her hand-painted china, broke the ice with a little small talk, and again explained their mission. Soon the tape recorder was set up, one young lady had her pen poised above a notebook ready to take notes, and the good sister started talking about her girlhood and her life. On the rare occasions when she ran dry momentarily, the girls were ready with well-conceived questions to start the flow again.
As they listened and the cassette turned, a wonderful thing happened. Years blurred and ran together, and the Laurels were no longer in the little house of sunlight and painted china. They were in Heber City, Utah, around the turn of the century, seeing life through the eyes of a young Mormon girl. They knew the bitterness of the winters, the headiness of mountain springs, the crushes, hopes, and secrets of being young. They met and loved all the old forgotten people, old and forgotten no more, who had filled a girl’s childhood. They visited a sawmill on the Utah-Wyoming border where she had spent some summers and smelled the sweetness of clean-sawed pine. They lived with her her first time away from home.
“It’s an awful thing to be homesick,” she said, closing her eyes and remembering, but with a smile. And then, in the present again for a moment, she leaned forward and asked, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Have you girls ever been homesick?”
Suddenly there was no generation gap—no time barrier between Utah then and California now—as the girls realized more fully than ever that people don’t stop being people just because they grow old. They forgot all about tape recorders and oral history for a while and talked friend to friend about homesickness, and family, and love, and all the other things that never stop mattering, and for a moment they glimpsed a more eternal perspective of existence and saw time as the sham it is.
Randy Tong, Gayle Allen, and Susan Langford visited Sister LaVern Brown who had suffered several severe falls and couldn’t get out much, and they presented her with a potted plant. The youth unanimously reported that it had been a delightful experience. Sister Brown later commented, “Oh, those young people were just so nice, but so quiet. I had to do all the talking.”
Sister Louella Norberg was visited by Kathy Peterson, Joele Chafant, Deanna Peterson, and Kiku Okauchi. Kathy said of the visit, “Joele, Deanna, Kiku, and I met outside her apartment and were standing there wondering how we should approach her when she stuck her head out and called, ‘Yoo-hoo, girls! Here I am!’ and invited us in to see her. It was fascinating. She told us things that happened over the years, and I really enjoyed it. I know she liked it a lot too because she kissed us all before we left.”
A kiss on the cheek in California—it’s a little thing, but it’s the sort of little thing that’s teaching youth all over the Church that service is truly its own reward.

When I was five years old, my mother bought me a pet turtle. One day I was outside playing with my turtle, watching it slowly crawl through the tall blades of grass. Suddenly a loud noise distracted me, and I looked away. When I looked back my turtle was gone!
I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find the turtle. Then I remembered that my mother had taught me that Heavenly Father answers our prayers. I knelt on the lawn and asked Heavenly Father to help me find my turtle.
I finished my prayer, opened my eyes, and looked down. I expected to see my turtle. But it wasn’t there. And no matter where I looked or how much I prayed, I never did find my turtle.
I told my mom what happened and asked if I could have a new turtle. She said yes, but when she went back to the pet store, they had no more turtles. She found out that all the turtles at the store, including mine, had been infected with a disease that could have made me and my family members very sick.
Now, many years later, I can see that it was a great blessing that I didn’t find my turtle. I know now that Heavenly Father answers all our prayers. He knows what is best for us. Sometimes the answer is, “Yes.” Sometimes the answer is, “No.” Often the answer is, “No, because I have something better for you. Just be patient.”

At the unofficial 1906 games in Athens, Greece, an Austrian weightlifter, Josef Steinbach, was booed by the partisan crowd because it was alleged he was a professional. The frustrated Austrian left the stadium, allowing the Greek in second place to win the event. The flag was run up, the crowd cheered. Then Steinbach reentered the stadium, walked up to the weight the winner had lifted with great effort, and with ease hoisted it three times over his head.

For days I had looked forward to my chance to work with the homeless in my city. But that cold Saturday morning it was not easy to feel charitable when I wished I could be back in my warm, comfortable bed. However, I was already committed.
As we arrived at our destination, despite the cold, many were already waiting for the kitchen to open. It was very quiet, and most of the people looked gloomy. There was not one smile or spark in anyone’s eyes, and their dark expressions matched the room they waited in.
I was frightened and decided that I didn’t want to work directly with them. Anyway, what would I say to them? How would I act around them? I didn’t want to make any of them angry with me. Was I supposed to give them pity or treat them like one of my buddies? Yes, it would definitely be easier to just stay away.
As these thoughts went through my head, we were led into a serving area with walls painted yellow, and pictures of rainbows and flowers placed strategically around the room. The brighter room calmed some of my nerves. Perhaps the sunshine and rainbows would subdue the “dangerous” ones.
While I was busy trying to conjure up more pleasant thoughts, the day’s jobs had been announced and I was left as the dishwasher. At least I would not have to interact much with them.
Soon, people began to filter in. Some knew each other, and others looked lost. I was amazed to see how different they all looked. There were even some who I would never have guessed were homeless.
There wasn’t much work for me at first, so I watched the other youth interact with the homeless. The longer I watched, the less scary these people looked to me. Those faces now began to lighten up. Smiles were everywhere, as was the sound of lively chatter. Soon, those who finished eating came and dropped their dishes in front of me. I smiled and tried to look cheerful. Some smiled back. I began to feel a lot better about these people. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all.
Suddenly, it was rush hour. I could barely keep up with the continuous flow of dishes, and my smile soon turned into a grimace and a plea for help. No one seemed to understand what I needed except one man.
Instead of walking off like everyone else, he cleaned off his plate and began to work on the mountain of dirty dishes. He was cheerful and made all those who passed him smile. He talked to me and made my work more enjoyable. This man had few material possessions, but he had a heart and compassion. His dirty appearance did not resemble his character at all. When we were finished, he told my supervisor what a good job I had done. Before I could say a word, he was gone.
In the car on the way home, I could not stop thinking of that kind man. Despite his circumstances he could still be cheerful and help others in need. I wished I could have told him how grateful I was for the example that he set for me.

Rachel loved her Sunbeam class. Her teacher, Sister Monson, had something special for them each Sunday to take home to help them remember what she had taught them. Once it was a picture of Jesus praying. Once it was a tiny mirror with “I am a child of God” printed around it. Last Sunday it had been a kitten puppet with a soft tummy for helping Mommy do the dusting. Rachel had named her dustcloth Ditty.
Every day when Mommy did the dusting, Rachel would get Ditty from the cleaning shelf and help. She liked to dust the rocking chair the best. It would gently rock to and fro as she dusted from the very top to the very bottom.
But today Ditty was lost. It wasn’t on the shelf when Mommy started dusting. Rachel had looked everywhere she could think of. But still no Ditty.
Mommy was just finishing the last shelf on the bookshelf when Rachel came into the living room and asked, “Mommy, does Heavenly Father have time for little answers?”
Mommy stopped her dusting and took Rachel’s hand. Together they walked to the couch, and Mommy lifted Rachel up onto her lap. “That sounds like a pretty serious question,” Mommy said. “Do you want to tell me what the problem is?”
“Ditty’s lost,” Rachel explained, “and I’ve looked everywhere. Sister Monson said that Heavenly Father has time to listen to big and little people about important things. I know that He helped when Daddy was looking for a job. And He helped Grandma when she fell and broke her hip. But does Heavenly Father have time to help me find Ditty?”
“Ditty is pretty important to you, isn’t it?” Rachel nodded sadly. Mommy stroked Rachel’s hair and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Well, anything that’s really important to you is important to Him, too,” Mommy assured her. “Would you like me to pray with you about Ditty?”
Rachel nodded, and they knelt together beside the couch.
“Do you want me to say it?” Mommy asked.
“No,” Rachel answered. “It’s my Ditty, so it should be my prayer.”
Mommy nodded and bowed her head. Rachel began.
“Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for Mommy and Daddy and all our nice things. Please help me to find Ditty. It’s important to me because Sister Monson gave it to me and because it helps me help Mommy. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Rachel and Mommy stayed kneeling quietly for a few minutes. Then Rachel smiled and reached for Mommy’s hand. “I just remembered where Ditty is!” Rachel said. “I was using it when I hid behind the couch to surprise Daddy yesterday.” She jumped up and looked behind the couch. Sure enough, there was Ditty. Rachel got it and crawled out to Mommy’s waiting arms. “He really did have time for a little answer, didn’t He?”
“Yes, Rachel,” Mommy reassured her, “and He always will.”

Of course the gospel brings a sense of peace too, a comfort and reassurance the youth of Huntsville want to share with their friends. So when Amanda and the rest of the youth in her ward wanted to know how to be better missionaries, they called in some experts—the elders serving in their area! And since ward members already take turns inviting the missionaries to dinner, the youth promised to feed their guests before hearing from them.
“It was a lot of fun,” says Jared Mayfield, 13, who craves almost anything associated with cheese and pepperoni. All of the youth helped in making, baking—or at least eating—the pizzas. After dinner, the elders gave advice about how to prepare for a mission and told how they felt when their own calls came. They suggested ways to bring the gospel into everyday conversations and discussed how to tell if people are interested in what you have to say.
But most of all they bore testimony of the Restoration of the gospel and the change it can bring in the lives of those who embrace the truth. And they encouraged the youth to do their part in sharing the gospel right now and in preparing themselves for future missionary service.

Brother and Sister Tsuya were well known for two things. First was the haircuts Brother Tsuya would give the missionaries.
The other thing the Tsuyas were known for was their incredible love and mission spirit. They spoke no Portuguese and spoke English with a thick accent. But they would take a box of copies of the Book of Mormon they bought with their own money to the fruit fair on the street each week and would always come back empty-handed. Their spirit was incredibly powerful.
One transfer day I had the chance to talk to Brother Tsuya. I found out that he had joined the Church in Hawaii. I told him that my grandfather had served a mission in Hawaii and was there during the attack on Pearl Harbor. Brother Tsuya was very surprised and said he had joined the Church then but didn’t remember an Elder Squire. I told him that it was my mom’s father, Elder Thurgood, who had served in Hawaii.
Brother Tsuya almost fell out of his chair and yelled out “Elder Thurgood is your grandpa?” He related the story of their meeting. He said while he was eating a meal in the Hawaiian community style, he was being inappropriate and was taking the Lord’s name in vain among other things. A missionary, my grandfather, had spoken up and asked him to stop. Brother Tsuya said he took the name of the Lord in vain again. He said that my grandpa had come over to him, hit him on the shoulder, and lectured him about how little he knew about life, how he wasn’t as smart as he thought, how he needed to quit smoking and do a bunch of things differently or he wouldn’t ever amount to anything.
Brother Tsuya told me that when he went home that night, he knew my grandpa was right. He thought about it and decided he wanted to make some changes. He ran into two similarly dressed missionaries a couple of weeks later and listened to the discussions with a sincere desire to change. Brother Tsuya gave much of the credit for his decision to listen to the missionaries to my grandpa.
I quickly wrote home telling my family I had huge news and that Grandpa Thurgood needed to be there when I made my telephone call at Christmas. When I called home, I finally told him that I had met somebody he brought into the Church. I will always remember how quiet he became as he said, “Ryan, you are mistaken. I never brought anybody into the Church on my mission.”
I asked him if he remembered hitting a smart-aleck Japanese kid at dinner in Hawaii and then lecturing him on how much he needed to change his life. He became instantly curious and said that he did remember the incident well. He was transferred away shortly after that and hadn’t heard more.
I told him that two weeks later that boy had decided to listen to the discussions because of what you said to him that night. He had later married in the temple in Hawaii. He had served in various callings in the Church and blessed many, many lives. He served as a mission president in Japan for three years. He also served as president of the MTC in Japan. He had served multiple missions with his wife.
My Grandpa Thurgood was in tears and couldn’t talk to me after that. He had spent over 50 years thinking his mission hadn’t made a difference to anybody. When the Tsuyas completed their mission in Brazil, my grandpa and his wife went to the temple with them and had a tearful reunion.

In February 1846, Elder Pratt left the branches in Anaa and Tubuai, bound for the United States. He promised to return with additional missionaries. Four and a half years later, on October 21, 1850, 21 travel-weary Latter-day Saints—seven men, five women, and nine children—arrived on the shores of Tubuai.11 Elder Pratt, called to lead a contingent of missionaries back to the islands, had returned in advance of the rest of the group but was detained by colonial officials in Tahiti who were suspicious of the missionaries. Louisa Barnes Pratt, Elder Pratt’s wife, and their four daughters, however, were with the company. Louisa immediately asked to be introduced to her husband’s “old friends” Telii and Nabota. An older man guided her and the other missionaries to Telii and Nabota’s home, where, despite having been sick for several days, Telii had prepared a feast of pork, fish, po’e (a local dish made from taro root), and fruit. The rest of the evening was spent celebrating their arrival by singing himene late into the night. “The music was delightful,” Louisa said. “Their voices are loud and clear.”12

Again I have to interject a comment about my mother. On one occasion when I was writing the score for Indian, I was back at Richfield and the recording engineer called to see how it was coming. I said, “It’s going great, just fantastic! You’ll love this sequence!” I went on and on, and afterwards my mother said to me, “Merrell, we never brag about ourselves; we never tell how good we are.” I said, “They’re putting out 20 thousand dollars just to record it. They want to know how it’s coming along.” She said, “Just remember that you shouldn’t become too boastful because the Lord won’t bless you.” I try to remember that—the Lord isn’t pleased if we’re too boastful. We should show thankfulness.

My wife, Wendy, experienced this difficult situation. For years she had nearly exhausted herself, thinking she had to be the perfect wife and mother, the perfect Church member, the perfect neighbor and citizen. Instead of feeling joy, she often felt overwhelmed and discouraged. Her frustration was further exacerbated when well-intentioned leaders and friends seemed to indicate that if she had enough faith, she would be able to accomplish all these things. Only after a personal crisis of depression and anxiety was she able to understand fully the source of her suffering. It was a painful time not only for her but for our entire family. We have grown stronger and learned many lessons as a result. But perhaps we could have been spared much of the pain if we had more clearly perceived the need to maintain temporal and spiritual balance.
While my wife was struggling to escape from the cycle of faithful works followed by frustration and discouragement, the Spirit of the Lord whispered to her that what she was demanding of herself was not pleasing to the Lord because she was not allowing the Atonement to operate fully in her life. It is not a sign of weakness to avail ourselves of the Atonement. Rather, it shows courage, faith, and gratitude. The Atonement allows us not only to repent of sin but also to receive an outpouring of the Savior’s grace, which strengthens us when we simply do not have the power to overcome our human weaknesses. It allows the Savior to share our burdens and compensate for our many inadequacies (see Matt. 11:28–30; Ether 12:27).

A short time ago, early on a Saturday morning, I went to the airport to bid farewell to Elders Gibson and Cornet. Brother Jackson also came to the airport that day to see Elder Gibson. Just before Elder Gibson was ready to board the plane, Brother Jackson shook hands with him, his eyes moist, and said, “Remember the day you were rowdy and I told you to leave my Sunday School class and never come back?” Elder Gibson quietly said, “Yes.” Brother Jackson said, “Thank God you came back.”

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

Immediately following the news of Hurricane Katrina’s destruction, the G. family held a family council and decided to give the money they had saved for new furniture to the Church Humanitarian Fund instead. This brought light to the children’s eyes. Taylor, Nathan, and Zachary asked if they could donate their personal savings to the fund. Their parents agreed. However, after counting their savings, the children said they needed to do more and asked if they could set up a stand to sell lemonade and cookies. They were soon open for business. The three boys manned the stand on Saturday from 10:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., taking no breaks except (in shifts) to eat. They allowed themselves no lemonade or cookies. At the end of the first day, they were elated that they had made $67. They asked permission to open again after school, but were told no. “But there are more people who need help!” the children explained. Mother agreed, and they raised another $24. They were filled with gratitude and joy as they sealed their money in a donation envelope.

As I sat contemplating an upcoming Church assignment, I became more and more apprehensive about my ability to do well. I needed help, so I began to pray. Much to my surprise, tears began to flow as I remembered an incident that had happened many years before.
The memory of that experience calmed me with the assurance that, like my earthly father, my Heavenly Father felt I had great ability and would do just fine. If I would stay calm and not worry about failure, he would be able to inspire me.
Confident once more, I thanked Him for giving me a father whose love and concern has helped me begin to comprehend our Heavenly Father’s love.

“Daddy, wherever did you find him?” cried Becky as she came up the path from the school bus.
On the lawn in front of her dad was a beautiful Canada goose, his one good wing flailing around while the other dragged on the ground.
“I found him by the pond,” replied Dad, “but he’s badly wounded.”
Becky’s mother came hurrying from the house to see the injured honker.
“He looks more dead than alive!” she exclaimed. “And he’s so handsome,” she added as she knelt and stroked the battered bird.
Becky’s heart went out to the poor wild creature. His lean and elegant body was covered with black, gray, and white feathers that shimmered in the sunlight. But his once proud strut was hampered by the dragging wing.
“Look how lopsided he walks,” said Mother sympathetically. “Shall we feed him some chicken mash?”
Dad nodded his head as he picked up the big, wounded goose.
“Becky, get some chicken feed,” directed Mother. “Your dad can carry him to the woodshed.”
A little later Becky watched as the honker ate hungrily. “Can he be mine?” she asked. “I’ll take care of him.”
“I guess so,” replied her dad. “But be sure to see that he has food and water every day.”
“I’m going to call him Sir Richard,” declared Becky, “because he’s so dignified and brave looking.”
“Sir Richard, the lopsided?” teased her dad.
“He is very handsome and he must be courageous too,” defended her mother. “I think Sir Richard is a good name for him.”
Becky often sat by the wild gander as he ate, and every day he seemed to grow a little stronger. In about six weeks Sir Richard was strong enough to walk, but he still looked and walked a little lopsided.
He followed Becky about, frequently drawing his long neck against her overalls to show his affection for her. Then he’d shove his bill into her hand, pretending to bite.
Sir Richard seemed to like the farmyard animals. The baby chicks used him for shade from the sun, and he acted as a mother to the baby kittens when their own mother wasn’t around.
The other barnyard geese trailed after the handsome stranger, trying to get him to notice them. How they preened and fluttered their feathers before him! But Sir Richard ignored all their feminine ways, and if they came too near, he’d give them a whack with his bill.
Becky grew to love her wild friend, though he would often get in her way as she did her chores. She would sometimes sit outside with the gander’s beautiful neck stretched across her legs and stroke his soft feathered body.
One day Sir Richard was nowhere to be seen. Becky called and called, then headed toward the pond. Perhaps he has gone to the pond to swim, she thought, so her eyes opened wide with surprise when Sir Richard suddenly flew into the barnyard and landed with a thump at her feet. His wing appeared to be completely healed.
The goose seemed almost as surprised as Becky, and shook his head in astonishment at what he had done. He looked at the wounded wing and gabbled excitedly. Then he raised both wings and danced about the barnyard. Running back to Becky, he pulled at her overalls and thrust his bill into her hand.
That evening at supper Becky told Mother and Dad about Sir Richard. They looked at each other and then at Becky.
“Becky, dear,” said her mother, “now that summer is nearly over and Sir Richard’s wing is healed, he’ll want his freedom.”
“That’s right,” Dad agreed. “Instinctively, now that he’s well, Sir Richard will want to travel freely with his own kind. It’s all part of Heavenly Father’s plan.”
Becky’s eyes went quickly from her mother to her father and she read in their expressions the awful truth.
When school started, she hurried home each day to see if Sir Richard were still at the farm.
“Do people ever clip the wings of geese to keep them from flying?” she asked Dad hopefully one night.
“Sometimes they do,” he replied, aware of the sadness in Becky’s voice.
Each day she scanned the sky. Then one crisp fall Saturday the first flight of wild geese flew south over the farm. When Sir Richard heard them his regal body trembled, and Becky’s heartbeat doubled. A lump seemed to catch in her throat, and a loneliness began to fill her heart.
She looked at Sir Richard and then at the sky, from which came the clear, shrill call of his wild friends. A moment later Sir Richard took a running start and rose into the air, answering the natural urge that filled his untamed heart. Becky watched until he was only a speck in the sky.
Her solitary, drooping figure made a lonely picture as she walked toward the house. But soon Becky’s face broke into a smile when she remembered with pride how her once-crippled friend had risen so grandly skyward. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked up at the heavens where he had disappeared.
“Good-bye, Sir Richard,” she whispered. “Good-bye.”