Gospel Story Finder

The Provo Utah Sharon East Stake often goes camping or holds outdoor activities for part of its youth conference. But last year, the youth stayed in town and helped in the revitalization project of one of the pioneer neighborhoods in Provo.

Mark Stringham, 16, was on the youth planning committee. They were tossing around the idea of doing a service-oriented project. One of their leaders is involved in city government. He said there was a neighborhood that needed some help. Mark said, “The minute he said it, everybody’s mind just went, Boom. That’s what we need to do.”

The teens worked with an organization already involved in helping the residents improve their land and keep their homes in good repair. To make the project even more enjoyable, the stake invited the teens who live in the neighborhood to come to their youth conference. The young people didn’t know each other because they attended different high schools, so giving service together also became a time to gain new friends.

Brendan Wright, 17, said, “The theme of our youth conference was by helping others you can raise yourself. When you get here, it just explodes. It’s fun. You get to know people. You take pride in what you’re doing. This is my little section of the house. I’m going to paint it the best I can.”

The group not only painted houses, they helped cut down the high, dry weeds running along the railroad tracks. One spark from a passing train could start a fire, and the growth was so tall and dry, it could have caused major problems if it spread to nearby homes. Looking a little like they had been rolling in haystacks, because of the bits of dry grass sticking to their clothes and hair, one group had the weedeaters going full blast. Then passing motorists began to stop and tell them it looked good and how much they appreciated them helping out. The word was spreading with the good works.

Giving service is like dropping stones in a pond of water. From one small act, the ripples start to spread. One act of service creates ripples of hope and encouragement that spread through neighborhoods, communities, and towns.

The ripples are not just on the outside. The teens who made themselves get up early and participate found out that being of service did something for them as well. There is satisfaction in working hard, in joining your friends involved in good works, in making something better. Now if it were only a little easier to get out of bed.

Call the mayor’s office or city government. Ask if there is a person who coordinates volunteer efforts, and set up a meeting with them to come up with ideas.
Create a planning committee. Include both young people and leaders.
Identify everyone that needs to be contacted and what permissions will be required.
Select a day and time. Make sure there are no major conflicts with other church or school activities. Make sure everyone receives notification of the event at least two or three weeks in advance.
Plan in some fun breaks in the work schedule.
Make realistic plans. Make sure you can finish what you start.
Enjoy the good feelings that go with being of service.

Nell of Branford Hall It is 1664. Nell’s parents see how intelligent she is and allow her to learn from books and her father’s microscope, a new invention then. When the plague comes, though she understands (from looking through the microscope) how even dead fleas can transmit the deadly disease, she doesn’t want to understand why she can’t save her best friend from it. A story of courage by an entire village.

I would like to tell you just one little experience of my own along that line. When I was a young fellow and was out at the old Saltair beach dance hall on Great Salt Lake, when that was reckoned to be the finest dance hall in all America, one of my girl friends came up and said, “LeGrand, we are having a banquet downstairs. Wouldn’t you like to join us?” Now you know the old saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I couldn’t turn that one down. So I took hold of her hand and went hopscotching down the steps over to the north end of that eating hall. We approached a long table that was all spread, and I saw by every plate a tall beer bottle like they used to have in those days. As soon as I could see that that was where we were headed, I stopped just like I was shot. I looked at that table, and I looked at that girl, and there I was, holding her hand. She said, “What’s the matter? Are you too good to drink a little beer?” Now you know if you have hold of a girl’s hand, you have to think pretty fast when she talks to you like that. I had to think fast.
I said, “Well, Elsie, I guess I am. I thought you were.”
“Goodbye,” I said, and I went up those steps a lot faster than I came down them.

When she was 17, she crossed Lake Ontario to visit her sister in Detroit. On the voyage she met the tall, dark-eyed pilot of the ship, Frederick Granger Williams. Their frequent visits quickly transformed affection into love, and the two were married in late 1815. The Williamses moved around the great Western Reserve of Ohio, USA, before finally settling in Kirtland around 1828. Her husband took up the practice of medicine and became rather well known for his abilities, and Rebecca learned to help him with procedures. Together they had four children.

Janaina is a convert. She first went to church with a friend and then with her Aunt Isabel, a member. Elder Nacimento and Elder Hill taught her family, and even when everyone else stopped taking the discussions, she continued and was baptized. Her parents later joined the Church too.
She remembers, “When I listened to the discussions and started going to church, I felt something good happening in my soul. Before, I was rebellious and argued with my parents, but now I started obeying my parents and trying to honor them. When I learned that Jesus was my Savior and that there were prophets on the earth to guide me, I felt great joy. The missionaries taught me to pray, and when I prayed, something that was bad inside me left, and a good spirit took its place and is with me still. I’m a different person than I was, and there’s a lot more love and happiness in our home.”

I counted the cash I’d collected for the evening and stuffed it into my apron. “A good night,” I thought to myself. My tables had been generous, allowing for an abundance of tips. After checking with my manager to make sure everything was finished for the day, I exited, leaving behind the restaurant once full of cowboys and blaring country medleys. A few of my fellow co-workers were sitting on the balcony, staring out into the river full of night stars, resting their feet from a busy night’s work.
“Hey, Hill,” Andrea* said. I liked her because she was one of the hardest workers. Her job was being the line of connection between the cooks and waitresses. “Hot food!” she would yell to the servers when their trays were ready. As much as I liked her, I knew she had drug and alcohol problems. Her choices were written on her face. Her teeth were yellowed, her hair was thin, and she was unusually skinny for her age and height.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I asked, taking my seat at the table covered with a red-and-white tablecloth. On warm summer nights, we used the balcony, which overlooked a river, for seating.
“It’s good,” she said, dipping into a cup of quickly melting vanilla ice cream. “A bunch of us are going drinking tonight. Want to come?”
“No, thanks,” I replied, loosening my bolo tie. By now, everyone in the restaurant knew me as the “Mormon girl who doesn’t drink.” They always asked me questions about my beliefs, and I tried to answer the best I could. Usually, though, they asked to satisfy their own curiosity or to start a war of words. Andrea was different, though. She didn’t tease or mock me.
“You’ve never had a drink of alcohol in your whole life?” she asked. Such a concept was, to her and many others, remarkable for a young adult in Texas, USA.
“No, I haven’t,” I replied. As she listened closely, I explained the meaning of the Word of Wisdom and how it keeps our bodies and spirits clean. I shaped my words to keep from offending her. Unlike the others, she didn’t object to the doctrine but nodded in understanding.
Four months later, I had returned home from my first semester of college. The steakhouse allowed me to work for a few weeks during Christmas break.
On my first day back, I saw Andrea at her usual spot in the kitchen. She looked so happy. I could tell from her countenance that something had changed about her. The moment she saw me, she gave me a big hug.
“Hill, I’ve been clean for three months,” she said, a tear spilling down her cheek. “I feel so much better about myself.”
She looked better, too. She had gained some weight, her hair looked fuller, and her teeth were whiter.
“I’m so proud of you,” I replied, hugging her back. The Spirit filled me with warmth. Out of all the dozens of people I’d worked with, she was the one who had made a change. A decision I had made years ago to keep the Word of Wisdom had resulted in good consequences not only for me but for her too.
“Thank you for your example,” she said. As I looked at her smiling face, I knew that she’d experienced a change of heart. The Spirit had touched her heart and allowed that change to take place. From that moment on, I didn’t care how much my co-workers teased me or challenged my beliefs. I’d touched the life of one person, and that was all that mattered to me.
Andrea stayed clean, finished college, and later worked for a highly regarded tax business. Even though she isn’t a member of the Church, to this day she has been blessed by the Word of Wisdom and the role it plays in keeping our bodies and spirits clean (see D&C 89).

I thought about you a lot on Christmas Day. I imagined you and your mom and dad around the Christmas tree, opening presents and later eating turkey and pumpkin pie. Our Christmas in Paraguay was very different, and I thought you might like to hear about it.
We had decided to visit the Ugarte family for Christmas. They live 80 kilometers (50 miles) through the jungle, in a little village called Itakyry. There is a small chapel there, where we could spend the night. In the Ugarte family are a grandmother, a mother and father, and eleven children. Their house has only two rooms and two beds, so we couldn’t stay with them. We packed some small gifts in the back of the car and left early in the morning of the day before Christmas. Two young elders went with us.
In Itakyry, Sister Ugarte was very sad. It was the day before Christmas, and she had no presents to give her children. It took all their money and time just to provide the essential things that such a large family needed. Nothing was left for gifts or even a special treat for Christmas dinner.
All that morning she worked. She washed clothes in the stream and spread them on the bushes to dry. She tended the garden and cooked black beans and rice for their midday meal. After they ate, she rocked the baby and mended clothes. As she worked, she prayed, “Heavenly Father, please send our good friends, the missionaries, here for Christmas. I know it is a long way for them to come, but it would make this day special. Please, Heavenly Father.”
We didn’t know that she wanted us to come. The Spirit just told us that it would be good if we did. A bridge was washed away, so we had to walk the last few miles through the jungle. My goodness, how happy the Ugarte family was when they saw us coming through the trees!
That night we had a very special family home evening in the little wood chapel. The beautiful story of the birth of Christ was told, and testimonies were shared. Then for a long time we sat, watching the silent tropical stars and singing the sacred hymns of Christmas.
The Ugarte children didn’t understand when Grandpa tried to act like Santa Claus the next morning. They did enjoy the simple gifts we passed out, though. There was a small doll for each little girl, sweet-smelling soap for the older girls, and windup toys for the boys. Grandpa had to show the boys how to wind them up, because they had never seen toys like that before.
We missed our own dear grandchildren, but this Christmas in Paraguay was a very special one for us. The best gifts that we can give or receive at Christmastime are love and service.

For example, when we first started having discussions about faith, one of Meghan’s concerns was around our children having priesthood interviews without one of us present.
We started by asking, “What’s working?” and we agreed that we both love our children and care about them. We both want what is best for them. We want them to progress and to grow. And we reestablished the fact that we are on the same team.
Then we focused on “What’s not working?” For instance, Meghan didn’t feel comfortable with some of the questions our teenage children would be asked in bishop interviews without us there.
That brought us to question 3: “What do we want to do or think differently?” Meghan and I sat down and discussed a plan. We agreed that one of us would be present with our children if they had interviews with members of the bishopric. We spoke to our bishop about this, and he was supportive. He reminded us that he had all of our growth and welfare in mind.

“Grandma, is your dad really old?” Katie asked. Katie’s great-grandpa was coming all the way from Hungary to stay with them. This would be her first time meeting him.
“Compared to my age, he’s not that old, but compared to your age, I guess he is,” Grandma said. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just wondering,” Katie said. “I bet he has lots of good stories.”
“He does,” Grandma said with a smile. “But he doesn’t speak English. I’ll have to translate for you.”
Katie hadn’t thought about that. “Well, can’t he learn English?”
“Learning a new language isn’t easy. It can take a long time,” Grandma said.
I have time, Katie thought. “Maybe I could learn Hungarian! Would you teach me, Grandma?”
Grandma smiled. “I would be happy to.”
“How do you say, ‘Grandpa, I love you?’”
“Nagypapa, szeretlek. Na-dj Pa-Pa, ser-et-lek,” Grandma pronounced slowly.
“Nagypapa, szeretlek,” Katie repeated until it sounded right.
Katie had a Hungarian lesson every day for a month. She learned how to say Hogy vagy? which means “How are you?” She learned köszönöm, which means “thank you.” Grandma was right. Learning a new language was hard work! She didn’t know enough Hungarian to have a conversation, but at least she could tell Great-Grandpa she loved him.
At the airport Katie bounced on her feet. She stretched her neck, trying to see when Great-Grandpa would come through the gate. Next to her, Katie’s grandma bit her lip and twisted her hands. She hadn’t seen her father in 40 years. They had been separated during World War II. Katie had heard the story many times. Eventually her Grandma was brought to the United States, while Great-Grandpa had stayed in Hungary. At last they would be reunited.
Finally, a tall silver-haired man walked toward them. When he saw them, his face broke into a wide smile. “Lányom,” he said to Grandma. They were both crying as they hugged. I know that word! Katie remembered. Lányom means “my daughter.”
Soon Great-Grandpa stood in front of Katie. He leaned down to hug her. He had blue eyes just like Grandma’s.
“Nagypapa, szeretlek,” Katie said in her best Hungarian.
Great-Grandpa’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t expect my great-granddaughter to tell me she loves me in my own language. I love you too.”
Katie stared at him in surprise. Great-Grandpa was speaking English! “Grandma told me you couldn’t speak English,” she said.
“Your grandma didn’t know,” Great-Grandpa said. “I always prayed that one day your grandma and I would be together again. So when I found out she was in the United States, I began to study English. I was preparing for when we would be reunited.”
Great-Grandpa had learned English because he loved his daughter, and Katie had learned Hungarian because she loved her Great-Grandpa! She took a deep breath. This was the hardest phrase she’d learned. “Örülök hogy, el tudtál jönni,” she said. “I’m glad that you could come.” It seemed to make Great-Grandpa happy to hear his own language.
Great-Grandpa smiled. “Me too.”
“I don’t know how to say very much in Hungarian,” Katie said, a bit shyly. “Would you teach me more? Maybe we could have language lessons together.”
“I’d like that very much,” Great-Grandpa said.

Having been called to serve a mission to England, Brigham and Brother Kimball were faced with a problem. They had promised the Lord they would leave for their mission from the cornerstone of Far West Temple. Despite the threats of apostates against their lives, Brigham, Orson Pratt, John E. Page, John Taylor, Wilford Woodruff, and George A. Smith, made their way back to Far West temple site, and with a small group of loyal Saints, held a brief service. The apostles then went to Commerce (now Nauvoo), Illinois, to settle their families and prepare for their mission. Brigham got a room for his family in an army barracks across the Mississippi River in Montrose.

A little initiative on their part netted four missionaries in Albuquerque, New Mexico, more than 70 referrals in two weeks and enabled them to place 100 copies of the Book of Mormon.
This outstanding work took place during the annual New Mexico State Fair, according to Elder Randy Smith from Elk City, Oklahoma, and Elder David Dorton of Lehi, Utah.
“We printed up an invitation for people to visit our display during the fair. We said if the person would bring us the invitation, we would provide him with a copy of the Book of Mormon,” Elder Smith said. Copies of the invitation were distributed throughout their tracting area, and many people responded.
“Man’s Search for Happiness” was shown throughout the fair. Another set of missionaries and several seventies helped to man the display. “That way we could continue to teach our contacts,” Elder Smith said.
The 70 referrals received at the fair came from persons living in various parts of the state and were forwarded to the proper mission homes.

A sister wrote me about her feelings toward a relative who had abused her as a child, leaving her with a painful physical condition. In her words, “I have to live with the pain and try to function around it.” She wrote, “At times I [felt] angry and wonder[ed] why I had to suffer the abuse in the first place and why must I continue to pay a price now.”

One day, as she listened to a talk in church, her heart was touched. The Spirit bore witness that she should forgive the man who had wronged her and that she could do so with the help of our Lord Jesus Christ. Her letter explained: “The price for that sin has already been paid by Him in Gethsemane. I have no right to hold on to it and demand justice, so I gladly hand it back to Him and rejoice in His love and mercy.”

Her letter described the result of her decision: “My heart is so full of joy, peace, and gratitude and love! Isn’t His work glorious? How I do love Him! Words cannot express my feelings.”

Usually Manuel liked market day in Manila. He liked the happy sounds of the market place. He liked the way the bright sun gleamed on the baskets of flowers, the shell jewelry, and the shoreline of the Manila Bay. But today he was not happy.
“Our neighbor, Aling [Mrs.] Sion, is ill and I must care for her,” his grandmother had said. “We need money for food, and so the flowers must be sold. I have no one but you, Manuel, to take them to market.”
Manuel had started early, so early that the sun was not yet peeking over the mountain tops. He trudged past the little lake, half hidden among dense trees. When he reached the dusty trail to Manila, he joined crowds of people carrying huge baskets of flowers.
Manuel grumbled to himself as he walked. “I hope Jose doesn’t see me.” Jose was a boy from Manuel’s village. Jose was a bully and lately he had chosen Manuel to pick on. Shaking his head as if to cast the thought from his mind, Manuel made his way to Grandmother’s usual place next to Aling Finay.
Aling Finay looked at him curiously. “You are the flower seller today?” she asked.
He explained politely, “Grandmother could not come.”
“You must arrange the flowers nicely,” said Aling Finay.
“Just as she would do,” Manuel agreed.
He set out the pink and yellow daisies, the beautiful red roses, and the big white lilies. Then he stepped back to admire his work. The arrangement wasn’t quite as good as he had hoped, but he didn’t know how to improve it. He was sure Aling Finay would have helped him if she had not already been busy with her customers. All Manuel could do was just wait and hope someone would buy from him.
When the first rays of the sun slanted over the palm-leaf roofs of the village, Manuel heard the clatter of horses hooves on the cobblestones. The men and boys were coming with coconuts, bananas and firewood. Jose will probably be with them! Manuel drew back into a corner, wishing he could hide and forget all about selling flowers.
Suddenly Aling Finay exclaimed, “See! There is Jose strutting into the square. He means trouble for somebody.”
Manuel’s heart seemed to turn upside down. He knew by the way Jose was grinning that he had already caught sight of him. Manuel scrambled to his feet. Only the thought of Grandmother’s disappointment if he came home empty-handed kept him from running away.
Jose stopped in front of him. “Ho!” he scoffed as he grabbed a handful of daisies, tore them to pieces, and threw them on the ground. “See Manuel selling weeds!”
Anger rose inside Manuel as he remembered how hard Grandmother had worked to make her flowers grow beautiful and strong. Forgetting to be afraid, he stepped close to Jose and shouted, “Stop!”
“Out of my way,” Jose ordered, giving him a fierce push.
Manuel sprawled headlong on the cobblestones. He heard Jose’s mocking laugh as the bully went on across the market place. Manuel picked himself up, rubbing his bruises.
That Jose is a bad one,” muttered Aling Finay, her dark eyes flashing. “Still you are fortunate. He might have done much worse.”
Manuel eyed his torn shirt sadly. “It is so. I hope he does not come back.”
The day passed and the shadows grew long. Finally the sun drew its light below the far horizon. Manuel’s heart was glad. He had sold all the flowers, and many coins jingled in his pockets.
Grandmother will be happy, he thought. But now I must hurry to get home before dark. Suddenly Manuel shuddered. Suppose Jose is lurking somewhere along the way!
But in spite of his misgivings, Manuel started up the dusty trail to his village. The breeze was cool after the heat of the day, and he could feel it through his torn shirt as he plodded along.
Manuel was passing the little lake among the trees when a cry nearby made him stop short. He stood still to listen. “Perhaps it was only the wind,” he said at last. “Or a late-singing bird.”
Then he heard the sound again.
“Help!”
Quickly Manuel ran to look between low-hanging branches. Several yards from the bank, he could see someone holding tight to a log and struggling wildly in the water.
“Jose!” Manuel gasped.
He hesitated for a moment. But no matter what Jose had done, Manuel knew he had to try and save him.
As he pulled off his shirt and trousers, Manuel called, “Hold on, I’m coming.”
The bigger boy was not easy for Manuel to help. Jose was strong, and now he was fighting in panic. Once he nearly pulled Manuel under the water.
It took all his strength, but slowly and deliberately Manuel worked his way to shore. When they finally reached it, he and Jose slumped down, exhausted and shivering.
When Jose found enough breath, he mumbled, “Many thanks to you, Manuel.”
“Why were you swimming, Jose?” Manuel asked. “It’s almost dark.”
Jose ran his fingers through his wet hair. “My feet were weary. I meant only to wade a few minutes, but I stepped into a deep hole.” Then he added embarrassed, “I cannot swim. Lucky for me that you can.”
“And that I came along at the right time,” Manuel agreed.
Jose hung his head. “I have often done wrong. There are many people who would have let me drown.”
“Had I done that, I too would have been doing wrong,” Manuel replied.
“I am ashamed I have been cruel. I am sorry I knocked you down,” Jose went on. “You are brave. I would like to be your friend.”
Manuel smiled and began pulling on his clothes. “Come then, friend,” he said, “it is not far to our homes. We will walk together.”

Huldah and Richard fought storms, grasshoppers, and drought. Despite their constant work, they experienced repeated crop failures. Although they had barely enough to live on, Richard was inspired to start a Sunday School for the children of the valley. With Huldah’s help, he cleared land and built an adobe house. When he grew weary, Huldah quietly encouraged him and worked beside him. She helped him select music and lessons for the Sunday School. For over a year Sunday School was held every week in the Ballantyne home.

At a special conference held in Great Salt Lake City on August 28 and 29, 1852, Richard was called to serve a mission in Hindoostan (Hindustan), India. For four years the Ballantynes had been hungry. Their clothing was inadequate to protect them against the harsh winters; they had no money and little food. With Richard gone, life would be even harder. Yet Huldah did not hesitate in supporting her husband in this call. She immediately began to prepare clothing for Richard, darning his socks and scrubbing and mending his white shirts. When she discovered that his one suit was totally threadbare, she ripped out the seams of her best homespun skirt, made from material that she had woven and dyed herself. She took Richard’s measurements and carefully tailored a suit for him. That suit was to last him throughout his mission.

Richard was gone for three years. By herself, Huldah cared for their three small children, tilled the land, and made all of the family’s daily necessities. She carded wool and extracted dyes from roots, leaves, bark, vegetable peelings, and cochineal bugs. From beef and mutton tallow, she fashioned her own candles. Scraps of fat, rind, and meat trimmings were saved to make into soap. After soaking and drying potatoes, she grated them to use as starch.

Throughout her life, Huldah quietly loved and took care of her family. She did not serve a mission or even travel far from her own home after she settled in Utah. Yet her influence was deeply felt in the lives of her husband and nine children.

Julius Caesar himself would have been proud of the costume.
A brass breastplate, red cape, centurion’s helmet, and pleated warrior’s toga made President A. Brent Brockbank, second counselor in the San Jose California Stake presidency, look like one of Rome’s conquering legionnaires. President Brockbank was participating in a weekend of games and service projects planned by the youth of the stake. The activities included a multi-stake dance and a fireside.
His outfit was in complete harmony with the final Saturday afternoon event—a chariot race pitting homemade vehicles from each ward in the stake against each other.
The stake’s teenagers, divided into six groups by wards, had labored on service projects since early Saturday morning. No wonder they were happy now to relish a well-earned lunch (organized by the Laurels), served from food-laden tables in the Del Mar High School stadium. Let the second counselor steal the spotlight—momentarily.
President Brockbank’s biceps bulged under the weight of a gold-painted plaster-of-paris statue of a charioteer cracking his whip over the heads of six galloping stallions. He explained to the crowd that the Ben Hur Memorial Traveling Award was destined for the ward whose team was fastest in a 440-yard dash around the track. One person was to ride in the chariot, six would pull. Turning first to those still heaping their plates with food, then to those in the stands basking in the west coast sunshine, President Brockbank raised the trophy in the air.
“Those who are about to die, we salute you!” he shouted to rivals in another ward, making fun of ancient Coliseum rites. Stake members, young and old alike, cheered the “emperor” on. The tone for the afternoon—a mood of happy excitement—was set.

When I was 16, I had the opportunity to attend general conference in person for the first time. My family was living in western Oregon, USA, and we drove to Utah to attend conference and to drop off my older brother at the missionary training center.
I went to the conference with a desire to be taught by the Holy Ghost. As a result, I received a manifestation from the Spirit that I probably would not have received had I not prepared myself.
During one of the sessions, everyone stood and sang the congregational hymn, “Guide Us, O Thou Great Jehovah.” As we sang, I had the distinct impression to look around the Conference Center. I did and was struck by the power of the unity of the thousands of people there as we all raised our voices in praise to God.
Then I had an experience where I felt like Nephi when he saw the vision of the tree of life, for the Spirit told me, “Look” (see 1 Nephi 11–14). I looked at President Thomas S. Monson and felt that the unity of the Church existed because we are led by a living prophet. Through the witness of the Holy Spirit, I know President Monson is the true prophet for our day, and I know that Jesus Christ leads this Church through him.

Stirling raced his big brother, Parker, up and down the narrow trail, thrilled to be hiking to an actual waterfall.
The bushes and grass grew so close to the trail that they sometimes scratched his legs when he walked past. He didn’t mind. This hike was going to be great!
“Can I swim in it, Dad?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Dad said.
“It will be too cold,” Mom explained. “And you don’t want to be wet for the hike back.”
Stirling shrugged his shoulders. It would still be fun to splash his older sister, Emma. He’d wait until she wasn’t watching, then wham!
As the morning went on, though, it started getting hot. His legs got tired, and he could feel blisters on his feet.
Stirling frowned. This was longer than he’d ever hiked before. And they still had the whole hike back. Was he going to make it?
But his worries disappeared when he finally heard the waterfall around the corner. He and Parker raced the rest of the way.
When the waterfall came into sight, Stirling skidded to a stop. It was awesome. He couldn’t believe how tall the waterfall was and how much water came crashing down. He forgot all about his tired legs.
After eating lunch, Stirling kicked off his shoes and splashed around the edge of the pool. The water was cold, but it felt great. Emma poured some water on his head, but he got her back with a giant splash of his own.
Before Stirling knew it, it was time to head back. The fun and excitement from the waterfall quickly faded as they started the long hike home. Every step hurt.
“How much longer is it?” Stirling asked. “I’m sooo tired.”
“You can do it,” Mom said. “Just keep moving. You’ll be okay.”
Stirling wasn’t so sure. If his feet hurt this much already, how would he ever make it to the end of the trail?
Soon even Parker and Emma started to complain, until Dad made a suggestion.
“Why don’t we say a prayer?” he asked.
Stirling was happy for any excuse to stop hiking. He folded his arms and bowed his head while Dad prayed. Dad asked Heavenly Father to keep them safe and to help them find the strength to finish their hike.
After the prayer, Stirling had an idea of his own. “Why don’t we sing some Primary songs?” He loved singing. Maybe that would help.
“Great idea,” said Mom.
They sang song after song. Stirling soon forgot about his aching feet and tired legs. He smiled. They just might make it after all.
Suddenly he bumped into Dad, who had stopped right in front of him. Stirling peeked around Dad. His eyes widened. A giant moose was walking across the trail only a few feet away.
Stirling froze. He knew how important it was not to startle wild animals. They could be dangerous.
But the moose only disappeared into the bushes. Stirling sighed in relief. That was a close one.
Down the trail a little way, his family stopped for a drink. “I think that moose knew we were coming because we were singing,” Parker said. “And so we didn’t surprise it.”
“That could have been bad,” added Emma. “Great idea to have us sing, Stirling.”
Stirling paused for a second. Had their singing actually helped them stay safe? After thinking about it for a bit, he realized Heavenly Father had answered their prayer. Not only did singing give them strength to finish the hike, but it kept them safe from danger.
He smiled again. Singing Primary songs was always a good idea.

I watched Cynthia prance across the playground, followed by three girls who wanted to be popular, like her. Cynthia’s earrings were long and silvery. She wore pink lipstick and bracelets that sounded like chimes.
I had to admit, I was jealous. Cynthia was pretty—and pretty snobby. My friends and I sat on the grass at recess, pointing out every snobby thing she did.
One day, Cynthia wasn’t at school. When I got home, Mom asked, “Do you know Cynthia Harper?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked.
“She had an accident yesterday.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Both of Cynthia’s parents were at work. She forgot her house key, so she tried to open a basement window. She slipped and pushed her arm through the glass.”
I gasped. “Will she be OK?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “She had to have surgery. Mrs. Keller was the one who found her.”
I shuddered thinking about the accident. Then I realized something. “Did you say Mrs. Keller found her?” The Kellers lived on our street.
Mom nodded. “Cynthia’s family lives in the green house.”
I knew Cynthia lived nearby, but I didn’t know she was my neighbor!
The next day, I told my friends about what happened to Cynthia.
“Serves her right,” Caroline said.
I thought about how unhappy Cynthia must be. “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “My mom said she’ll have to wear a cast all summer. She’s lucky she can even move her fingers.”
“Sorry,” Caroline mumbled.
After school that day, I went to my room. My eyes fell on a pair of tiny earrings I had gotten for my birthday that I hadn’t worn yet. An idea came to me. Maybe I could give them to Cynthia.
“What are you thinking?” I asked myself. “She doesn’t know you, and she’d never wear earrings like that.”
But before I knew what I was doing, I was carrying a get-well card and the earrings up the street to the green house.
Cynthia’s mom answered the door. “Is Cynthia here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“She’s right here.” Her mom smiled, and I looked inside to see Cynthia sitting on the couch.
“I’m Kim,” I said. “I live up the street.”
Cynthia smiled. “Hi.”
“I heard about what happened, and I hope you feel better soon.” I gave her the card and earrings and held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes lit up. “Thank you! You are so nice!” she exclaimed.
“Um, are you … feeling better?” I stammered.
Cynthia nodded. “It hurts a little. But I’m OK.” She held out her arm so I could see her pink cast.
“Well, see you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.
I skipped all the way home. I knew I had been brave and that I had done the right thing. But most of all, I knew I had been wrong about Cynthia. She wasn’t snobby—my friends and I had been the snobs.
Cynthia and I didn’t become best friends, but every time we saw each other in the hall or at recess we smiled and said hi. A few weeks later, school ended and I moved away. Knowing I had been wrong about Cynthia helped me not to judge others at my new school. Making friends was easier when I remembered that being nice could start with me.

We went on a hike with our Scoutmaster last summer, and he reserved one night for each of us to be alone and talk to our Father in Heaven. He told us we could pray to him, just like Joseph Smith did, and get an answer. The next morning we were back on the trail again, with our Scoutmaster urging us over “just one more hill,” and “just around the next bend,” and repeating his slogans like, “When you see a man on a mountaintop, remember he didn’t fall there,” or, “Make your mind tell your body what to do. Don’t let your body tell your mind what to do.” One of the best things about our Scoutmaster is that he’s not afraid to let us see him make a mistake or two. It lets us know he understands when we flub it. One time we lined two maps up crookedly and ended up climbing the mountain next to King’s Peak. We still laugh about that, and we named the mountain “Troop 112’s Mistake”. But the thing I appreciate the most about our Scoutmaster is that he’s my dad. For more than 10 years now I’ve been sharing him with three older brothers, a younger sister, and a troop of Scouts. But that’s not hard to do because my dad has always saved part of himself for me. That’s why he’s the best Scoutmaster I know.

Let me know how I can help. I’ve said this myself, dozens of times, but words alone are meaningless. I prefer the approach of my neighbor when a section of my backyard fence was blown over in a windstorm. He didn’t ask if there was anything he could do to help, he just came over one day, replaced a rotted post, and repaired the fence.
Are there some specific things that you could use some help with right now? When my neighbor saw my broken fence and fixed it, he knew that I needed help. But other needs aren’t as easily determined without asking. Gently ask or suggest ways in which you might help. For example, I was concerned that the financial provisions for my family were in order, but didn’t quite know how to go about determining whether or not they were. One day my bishop, who is a certified public accountant, came to see me. “If you’d like me to,” he said, “I’d be happy to review your financial affairs with you and your wife.” I was grateful for his tact, and relieved to learn after his review that things were as we wished them to be.