Gospel Story Finder

Lizzie wiggled and squirmed as she sat watching the deacons pass the sacrament bread. She thought, It’s sure hard to sit still and be reverent while the deacons pass the bread and the water. I wonder if all my friends will be in Primary today. I want to tell them about the presents Grandma and Grandpa sent from Portugal. I can’t wait to see Grandma and Grandpa when they come home from their mission!
In a few minutes, a deacon reached their row. When Lizzie took a piece of bread, Mom leaned over and whispered, “This is to help us remember Jesus.”
Lizzie tried to think about all the things she knew about Jesus. She thought of the story of Jesus visiting the Nephites after he was resurrected. He had blessed each child; then angels had come down from heaven. If only she could have been there!
Then Lizzie remembered a bedtime song Mom sometimes sang to her and her younger brother, Paul:
I think when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,
How he called little children like lambs to his fold;
I should like to have been with him then.
I wish that his hands had been placed on my head,
That his arms had been thrown around me,
That I might have seen his kind look when he said,
“Let the little ones come unto me.”
(Children’s Songbook, 56)
Lizzie smiled quietly to herself and thought, I wish I could have been with Jesus then.
While she bowed her head for the prayer on the water, Lizzie listened carefully to the words. When she heard the priest say, “that they may always have his Spirit to be with them,” she wondered how she could have his Spirit with her.
The deacon passed the water to the family, and again Mom whispered to Lizzie, “This is to help us remember Jesus.”
Lizzie had a new thought. I didn’t live when Jesus was on earth, but he loves me just as much as he loved the children then. The sacrament prayer says that I can have his Spirit with me always if I remember him and am obedient. That’s great!
Lizzie snuggled up against Mom and smiled as the young men finished passing the sacrament. Thinking about Jesus had helped her be reverent during the sacrament, and she had such a good feeling inside that she knew she had done the right thing.

Robert L. Marchant told the story about when he was a young missionary in the Mexican Mission. He and his companion were new in the mission field and were not known by all of the missionaries. One day they were in their missionary quarters when sister missionaries came by tracting. The young elders, without disclosing their identity, invited the sister missionaries in and began a gospel conversation with them. The sisters did not recognize the elders. The sisters were not well versed in the doctrine, and the two elders who were hiding their identity soon had them tied in doctrinal knots. With a feeling of frustration, one of the sister missionaries began to cry, and as she did, she bore her testimony simply, powerfully, and beautifully. Elder Marchant and his companion were stricken in their hearts and were ashamed of themselves because the simple testimony of these sister missionaries came through and penetrated their hearts.

My mother also taught us to finish what we started. I took piano lessons as a child and gave my first public performance at a school recital when I was eight years old. I fell down as I was walking up the steps to the stage. I went ahead and performed my number, even though I was crying all the way through it. I had learned that you don’t give up, even when you’re discouraged. You see the job through.

Sammy Snake was busy crawling out of his old, dry skin when Hosea Hamster scampered by. “Ha-ha!” laughed Hosea. “Sammy, you certainly look funny—like a worm crawling out of its cocoon.”
Sammy Snake turned to his old friend and replied, “Snakes always shed their skins in the springtime.”
“I don’t see why you should shed your skin. Your old one looked just fine to me,” said Hosea.
“Every year I grow bigger so my skin becomes too small,” Sammy explained. “In the winter I hibernate, and I grow a new skin under the old one while I’m asleep. When I wake up in the springtime my old skin is dry. It splits along my belly and I crawl out of it. It’s like being born again every year.”
Hosea looked puzzled and replied, “Sure sounds like a lot of trouble to me. Why don’t you just stretch your old skin? That’s what I do. Watch this!” He puffed out his cheeks, making his little round face look like a fuzzy Ping-Pong ball.
“No, no! You don’t understand,” cried Sammy, a little exasperated. “My skin doesn’t stretch like yours. It has to be hard and tough so it won’t tear when I crawl over sharp rocks. My skin needs to be strong enough to protect me from the hot sand and from Benny Badger or he could bite through it with his sharp teeth.”
“I see,” replied Hosea. “A skin that can do all those things couldn’t be expected to stretch too.”
Hosea sat on his hind legs and watched Sammy wiggle and squirm.
Finally all his old skin came off. As Sammy crawled free of the skin, he gave a sigh of relief. “Well, I’m glad that job is over for another year. Boy, am I hungry! I’m hungry enough to eat a. …” His beady eyes fixed on the plump little hamster sitting in front of him.
Hosea caught the message. Quick as a wink, he scurried down the path to safety. He paused for a moment and turned to say, “So long, Sammy. I’ll see you later—maybe we can play after you’ve had your dinner!”

Larry loved to jump and run races and ride his bike and climb trees. So when it came time for Primary, he had a hard time sitting still. Every time he sat down in his chair, he felt like standing right back up. He tapped his toes on the floor. He squirmed in his seat. He tugged on his lip.
Sister Valencia showed their class a picture of Jesus and told them some of the special names for Him. “We call Him our Exemplar,” she said. “It’s a big word, but it means someone who’s a good example. What are some ways Jesus was a good example?”
“He was nice to people who were mean to Him!” Chloe said.
“He chose the right!” Philippe said.
“He was a good friend,” Chad said.
“You’re all right,” Sister Valencia said. “Jesus loved His enemies, He always stood up for what’s right, and He was a wonderful friend. So if we want to be like Jesus—“
“—we should be a good friend!” Larry said.
Sister Valencia nodded. “Exactly. Jesus was a good example to everyone because He was a friend to everyone. He wants us to be friends to everyone too.”
At the end of the lesson, the class lined up at the door to walk into sharing time. When they got into the Primary room, another boy was already in the seat where Larry usually sat. Larry knew the boy’s name was Brennan and that he had something called autism. Larry wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew Brennan had a hard time sitting still and shouted things out when they were supposed to be reverent and sometimes cried loudly. Brennan’s mom usually came in to sit with him. Larry didn’t know Brennan well yet.
Larry slumped down in the chair next to Brennan, feeling a little grumpy that he had to sit in a different seat. Then, when sharing time started, Larry felt his wiggles coming on. He kicked the chair in front of him. Clack! Then he heard another loud clack. Brennan had kicked the chair in front of him too!
Brennan’s mom softly asked Brennan to be quiet.
Larry bounced up and down on his chair. Brennan bounced too. Larry looked at Brennan and sighed loudly. Brennan sighed louder. Why was Brennan copying everything he was doing?
Larry made a mean face at Brennan and leaned away. Brennan copied him, twisting his mouth into an ugly frown. Larry looked at him in surprise. Is that what Larry’s face looked like? He didn’t like seeing such a mean face glaring at him like that. He didn’t like it at all!
Suddenly Larry remembered what Sister Valencia had said about Jesus being an example and a friend. Jesus wouldn’t make a mean face at Brennan, Larry thought. Jesus would help Brennan. Larry decided to give it a try.
He stopped kicking the chair—and Brennan stopped kicking too. He folded his arms—and Brennan folded his arms too. He turned his head and faced the teacher—and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brennan face the front too. Larry grinned.
During singing time Larry sang with his best voice and heard Brennan singing loud too. Brennan’s mom smiled at Larry with a smile that lit up her whole face. Larry felt warm inside. He could be like Jesus!—an example and a friend.

For some reason as Peter Nordhoff walked through the room, the words he heard from the television made him stop. General conference was being broadcast, and his wife, who had been recently reactivated through the fellowship of a friend, was watching.
Peter and Adrina had been raised in the Church and married in the temple, but for nearly ten years they had not been involved much with the Church. At first, his work kept him busy on Sundays. When that changed, they used Sundays to relax together.
But that conference Sunday changed their lives. “The words of a prophet of God affected me,” Peter says. “The Spirit spoke to me through God’s mouthpiece. It was like a second birth for me. Listening to the prophet helped me realize that I must start doing the things I was supposed to be doing if I wanted my wife and daughter near me in eternity.” Later that day, Peter and Adrina went to their bishop.
“We went from less-active to overactive very quickly,” recalls Adrina, smiling.

“No! You can’t go with me!”
There was no discussion. I had issued my verdict and slammed the front door to the house behind me, hurrying out to the car before Nathan could hound me again. He was always hounding me, but, as my best friend, Brian, said, that was a little brother’s job.
Brian was an older brother, too, with two sisters. I’m three years older than Nathan. Brian and I both agreed that as 17-year-old high school seniors, we should not be bothered by younger siblings. After all, had my big brothers even given me the time of day while we were growing up? I’m not sure they even knew I existed, except to punch or tease me once in a while.
Nathan dropped from the edges of my mind as I gunned the car out of the driveway and headed for Brian’s house. When I pulled up front I saw someone on the porch I didn’t recognize. I honked the horn, and the tall kid turned to open the door to yell something inside. In a minute Brian appeared, and the two hurried to the car.
“Hey, Alex,” said Brian as he slammed into the front seat. The back door slammed too, right behind him.
“This is Jason. He just moved in next door.”
I had to turn in the front seat to get a good look at Jason in the back.
“Hi, Jason. What’s up?”
Jason was at least four inches taller than Brian, and very skinny. His hair was red, cut short, and combed neatly back away from his slender face, which was covered with a multitude of freckles.
“Hi, Alex. So where we going?”
“We’ve got a history project we’re working on,” said Brian. “We need some things from the library, but it won’t take long. Then we’ll stop by the mall and see who’s there.”
“Great,” said Jason. His smile was huge, stretching almost across his whole narrow face. “But I have to be home by six-thirty for dinner.”
Brian and I both nodded, knowing that our parents expected us home for dinner as well.
Over the next few weeks Jason became a third member of our friendship, going everywhere with us, and doing the things we did. We all had so much in common that we got along great. Then came the day we had planned to go to the school’s swimming pool, and Jason called me just a little while before it was time to leave.
“Alex, do you mind if I drive tonight?”
Since my family happened to have an extra car with my brother away on a mission, I had driven everywhere we went. My friends chipped in for gas now and then, but I was always behind the wheel.
“I guess,” I said into the phone. “How come?”
“Oh, I just want to drive tonight, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, I don’t care. Pick me up after you get Brian at seven.”
I had to gulp down my dinner to be ready in time. I hoped that the warning about swimming on a full stomach was just a legend. With my dishes safely in the dishwasher, I grabbed my swimming stuff and headed for the door. Suddenly, an excited voice called out from behind me.
“Can I go with you, Alex?”
I didn’t even turn around.
“No!”
I heard my dad call something out to me as I shut the front door, but I knew it would be a comment about being nice to Nathan, so I jumped down the front steps and ran to the old Buick idling in front of the drive.
It wasn’t until I was sitting down in the back seat that I noticed Brian was also in back, and another person, a very short person, was up front with Jason.
“Hey, Alex,” Jason said with a turn of his head toward me. Then, nodding to the short kid next to him up front he said, “This is my brother, Daniel. I wanted to drive tonight so I could bring him.”
Daniel was all smiles as he turned in the seat enough for me to get a better look at his round and happy face. His thick head of blond hair stuck out , but it was something else that caught my attention. I was surprised because Jason had often mentioned his younger brother, but never the fact that he had Down’s syndrome.
“Where are we taking him?” I asked.
“He’s going swimming with us,” said Jason. He had pulled the car out onto the street and headed toward the pool.
I took a quick glance at Brian, who just raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
“Got stuck baby-sitting, huh?” I looked at Jason as he drove, but my attention went quickly back to Daniel, who was still turned, still smiling brightly at me.
“No. I just wanted to bring him along. Daniel really likes to swim. He won a gold medal in the 50-meter race at last year’s Special Olympics.”
I didn’t think Daniel’s smile could get any bigger, but suddenly it did. Then he turned back to the front and reached across the space between him and his older brother and placed a pudgy hand on Jason’s shoulder. It remained there all the way to the swimming pool.
Daniel really was a good swimmer. Brian and I headed straight for the high dive once we were in our suits, but Jason and his brother remained in the shallow end, where they practiced a few laps with several different strokes. Almost every length of the pool Jason would fall behind just before reaching the end, Daniel surging ahead to touch the wall first. Then his blond head would pop up, the smile as big as ever. I couldn’t help but watch him between each dive I took.
Before long most of the friends who had met us at the pool had abandoned the deep end and were cheering Daniel on as he challenged each newcomer to a race. With each victory Daniel would slap the wall, jump up smiling, and shout out in glee. Then he would give solid high-fives to anyone near. I’m still not sure just how I got there, but suddenly I found myself back against the wall of the pool, waiting to push off in my own race with Daniel.
Since I was on a couple of athletic teams at school, I was used to the cheers of the crowd, but this time it was different. No one was cheering for me.
“Go Daniel!”
“Come on, Danny Boy!”
The voices echoed through the building as Jason gave us the starting signal. I didn’t want to disappoint the crowd, but my competitive spirit was suddenly in gear and I pushed off with a great burst. I’m not the greatest swimmer in the world, but then I’m not too bad, so I moved strongly through the water, determined to win the race. After a stroke with my right arm I lifted my head to see how far Daniel was behind. I was amazed to see him right beside me.
I took a huge breath, put my face in the water, and surged forward, but under the water I could see the motion next to me. Daniel swam with strong, steady strokes that pushed his short, round body swiftly through the water.
No way, I thought to myself and gave everything I had to the power in my legs and arms. Still, no matter what I did, Daniel moved steadily on. He touched the wall almost a full body length in front of me. When I came up out of the water, there was Daniel, his face dripping wet, smiling as big as ever.
“Good race, Alex,” he said and suddenly his arms were around me, hugging me tight. The cheers from our friends broke us up as Daniel moved through the water to give the high hand to everyone. But first among them was Jason, Daniel’s big brother.
“Great job, Daniel!” Another high-five and then another hug, this one between brothers.
I swept my wet hair back from my forehead, not sure if the water that had suddenly appeared in the corner of my eyes was from the pool.
A few nights later, I again had to wolf down my dinner to get out in time to meet the guys. Without saying much I cleaned up my plate, put it in the dishwasher, and headed for the door.
“Where to tonight?” Dad asked.
“Bowling,” I said. “Brian’s dad got us some coupons for the new alley by the mall.”
I turned again toward the door; then, stopping in my tracks, I turned and took a couple of steps back to the table.
“So, Nathan,” I hesitated for an instant, glanced at Mom and Dad, then back to my younger brother. “You want to go with me?”

Years passed. Brother Andelin passed away. Then on a cold December morning, our priests quorum arrived at a little house on the edge of the ward boundaries. The name on the mailbox read Andelin. At the door, leaning against a cane, was a small woman with thinning white hair and a warm smile.
Our adviser introduced us to Sister Andelin as we brought in the small Christmas tree we were giving her. She made sure to learn our names as she talked to us. Sister Andelin hadn’t been able to come to church for several years. But even though she didn’t recognize most of us, she knew our families.
“How’s your mother?” she asked me.
I gave the usual response. “Fine.”
“My husband used to be your home teacher when you first joined the Church. Do you remember that?”
After telling her I did, I reminded her about the board and the seesaw. She held her hands together and smiled at me as if picturing the entire thing in her mind. “You know, he was always doing good things like that for people. And now look at you,” she said, taking hold of my hand. “Passing on the good that you were taught. That’s how I get along now; all the love my husband spread around this ward just keeps flowing back to me.”
I realized that Brother Andelin took care of the widows and the fatherless as the Lord directed. But more than that, Brother Andelin passed on a spirit of giving that outlasted both him and that old teeter-totter.
Since Brother Andelin’s first visit, I’ve learned a lot about the Church, while gaining a testimony of the gospel. That testimony began when a white-haired man took an old board and made a seesaw.

Photograph courtesy of Katie B.
One day my family visited a barn to play with some baby goats. When we arrived, we found out there was a newborn goat whose mother could not take care of it. The owner of the goats needed someone to nurse the baby goat back to health. I jumped at the opportunity, and we decided it would be my Knowledge value project for Personal Progress (see PersonalProgress.lds.org).
When we picked up the goat the next day, we learned that triplets had been born the night before and were very weak. I volunteered to care for one of them. So there I was with a Personal Progress booklet, two baby goats, goat-milk formula, and little experience.
First I did my research. I found out that baby goats love to climb, run, and snuggle in dark corners. They need to be fed every four to six hours, and you have to teach them how to drink from a bottle. Next, I laid down blankets and bedding in a pen and set up a box for the goats to sleep in. I also set up a ramp and stand for them to play on. Throughout the project, every night I woke up in the middle of the night to feed them, I cleaned a lot, and I struggled to feed the animals with a bottle, but overall I had lots of fun.
This Personal Progress project increased my knowledge and helped me grow. I learned many new skills, such as being patient, keeping a schedule, caring for an animal, converting measurements, and keeping a journal. I love Personal Progress.

I’d like to see Geri again. I need to apologize.
Geri was one of the LDS students I used to hang around with at lunch time when I was a senior in high school. She and several of her friends would sit on the lawn behind the administration building where my buddies and I would often join them for some friendly banter.
Geri was almost always there, but it was almost as if she weren’t. She was so painfully shy, that even with conversation bouncing all around her, she wouldn’t join in. I never knew why, but Geri lived with her grandmother. There probably wasn’t much money to go around in her home because she didn’t have many clothes. Although what she wore was clean and neat, it was not the style of the day.
My personality was much the opposite of Geri’s. I was the group clown—seeking to milk laughter from every situation while masking my teenage insecurities in humor.
One day I noticed that Geri was wearing a rather heavy dose of perfume.
“Nice perfume, Geri,” I commented.
She smiled, clearly pleased at the compliment.
“Did you bathe in it?” I asked.
The moment those words left my lips, I wanted them back. I wanted that embarrassed, betrayed expression on Geri’s face to disappear. I longed to see the smile again. But the damage caused by that thoughtless comment was not so easily erased.
“Do you think it’s too strong?” she asked.
I mumbled and shrugged.
“Is it too strong?” she pressed.
“A little,” I conceded.
Geri looked away, and the incident was history. But the consequences of that event haunt me still. I was poorer that day because of my actions, and an innocent human being was hurt.
Life, for the most part, is made up of little things. Small acts of kindness or selfishness determine the depth of our commitment to the Savior and the quality of our lives. Some seemingly small acts can cause us considerable regret for a long time.
I have often wished during the years since that incident that I could find Geri and apologize for my thoughtlessness. I hope I would find that the years have been rich and full for her. I hope the light of the gospel has brightened her life and eased her burdens.

In addition to questions about his goals and strengths, I asked Elder Handsome about his social life.
“Tell me about your girlfriends.”
He virtually leaped out of his chair.
“Girlfriend, not friends. There is a one and only. She’s the greatest. I can’t live without her.”
“What will it do to your mission when she marries someone else?”
“If I hear of her even dating anybody else, I am gone, I am history, I am out of here. I’ll go straight home.”
For months Elder Handsome struggled to become involved in his mission. He was continually figuring out clever things to write to his “one and only.” He spent much of his time thinking about her instead of the work.
When the “Dear John” came, Elder Handsome struggled even more. But he did not go home. He eventually became an outstanding missionary and a dedicated district and zone leader. He learned to love his mission, his area, the prospective members, and the local members.

To a large majority of the world, we are considered a different kind of people. We live a clean, mellow life in contrast to the partying lifestyle. I had the opportunity to travel to several different colleges throughout the United States on recruiting trips. While this was an extremely fun and exciting experience, it was also a huge eye-opener for me. The girls on the teams I was being recruited by had never even heard of Mormons. On every single trip, I ended up explaining my beliefs. They were shocked by some of the things I told them, but this was a real testimony builder. As I told them what I believe, I felt an even stronger testimony growing inside me.

The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.
(To be concluded.)

Another young friend of mine had a father who was serving as bishop. He often said he wished his dad was not the bishop so he could sit with the family in sacrament meetings and could spend more time at home and with the family. As the years passed, my friend changed his mind. He honored his father because he had served well as a bishop and the family had really learned more in many respects and had shared rich spiritual experiences that would not have come had the father been with the family more instead of being bishop. The son honored his father and his father’s Church calling, just as he honors the memories of that wonderful man.

We were lined up along the edge of the sidewalk next to the curb as straight as a flock of crows on a barbed wire fence.
We had been told by reliable sources that a more boisterous bunch had never graced the halls of our elementary school. Today, however, we were on our best behavior as a requirement for witnessing a great display of skill. Even the mayor was there wearing his dark suit and white shirt, his collar button straining to hold everything together. Somehow, Mayor Smith still looked like a mechanic even when he left his garage and shed his coveralls.
But our attention was not on the mayor. It was focused on our school principal, Mr. Redding, and the event that was about to take place. Mr. Redding was standing next to some of the teachers at the street corner, his right hand held aloft, firmly grasping a stopwatch which was held for all to see.
This was a great day! Not only were we released from our classroom prisons, but we were to witness the unparalleled skills of the volunteer fire department!
Already we could hear the siren wailing and bells clanging. We strained on tiptoe to be the first to see the fire truck coming. A cheer erupted from 100 boys and girls as the bright red truck came into sight.
It rounded the corner on squealing tires with dust flying and dogs barking. Three brightly clad firemen jumped from the moving truck and braced their feet against the ground, holding firmly to the long, limp canvas hose. The spool whirled as the hose unwound and the moving truck pulled over to stop near the closest fire hydrant.
I yelled “Hi” to Bill Jenkins, but he had no time to talk to kids. He was a member of the volunteers, drilled and trained to a fine edge of efficiency. There was an economy in every movement.
Precious seconds were ticking off the stopwatch, but already the hose was trained on the imaginary flames licking at the walls of our house of learning.
The hose was quickly coupled to the hydrant and the nozzle trained upon our hypothetical blaze. A volunteer ran to the hydrant with a special wrench to turn it on. A look of alarm came upon his face—the wrench didn’t fit.
There was a scurry of movement as each area of the truck was ransacked to find the crucial missing wrench. The search continued, and the watch kept ticking.
Buzzy Harris was getting nervous. He stood first on one foot and then another. The length of time a boy can stand in line on the edge of a sidewalk has some definite limitations. Buzzy bent over and picked up a small stick and with a practiced swing scribed a perfect circle in the soft dirt beside the walk. Into this circle he threw down his best cat’s-eye marble. It was an unspoken challenge for anyone willing to take him on in a game of “migs.” I was out of the running because Buzz had already taught me how to play. All of my hard-earned marbles were resting securely in his swollen marble bag.
Three boys soon joined him kneeling in the dirt, doing their best to win that cat’s-eye and teach Buzz a lesson he’d never forget. Walter was chasing Suzie Adams, trying to pull her hair. She was screaming at the top of her lungs but not really running as fast as she might.
Mr. Redding was becoming visibly agitated. He glanced at the stopwatch still held partially aloft in his tiring right arm. He lowered his arm to rewind the watch.
Meanwhile, our volunteer fire department was searching for the right wrench. A pickup truck had taken off in a wild dash, its tires throwing gravel. It was headed back toward the fire station on a search mission.
Walter had caught Suzie, but what do you do with a cornered wildcat? Three of Suzie’s girl friends had come to her rescue, and there was some question as to whether he would escape alive.
Buzzy was looking for more takers as he poked newly acquired marbles into his bag. Mr. Redding wound his stopwatch. Three boys had come to Walter’s rescue, but Suzie was now receiving reinforcements.
There was no longer a straight line. The crows had hopped off the fence.
I glanced at the schoolhouse and our hypothetical fire. I decided by now the fire would have consumed the bottom floor, engulfed the second floor, and spread to the principal’s office on the third.
Meanwhile, our volunteer fire department was still looking for the right wrench. The watch kept ticking.
No one really noticed when the pickup truck came screeching back on the scene. Mr. Redding and the other teachers were busy picking boys and girls off a “dog pile.” Walter and Suzie were on the bottom and getting squashed. Buzzy was being threatened by a larger opponent who said he was only playing “funs,” not “keeps,” and wanted his marbles back. Mayor Smith had quietly gone back to his garage.
Suddenly the long white hose that had lain limp and useless began to take on life. The swelling motion began moving along its length toward the nozzle. Our volunteer firemen were sitting in the shade of the tree with the nozzle lying inertly in their laps. Suddenly the hose came to life. Like an angry cobra, it raised itself poised to strike, lashing out in every direction. Our volunteers bravely tried to control the maverick stream, but it kept dodging from their grasp. Dirt and grass were being washed down to native gravel, and mud was flying everywhere.
Our firemen didn’t catch the runaway hose. It caught them. But they grabbed it and held on. It took three of them to control it, and, in the process, Mr. Redding was drenched along with the rest of the faculty. The few crows that were still on the fence were unceremoniously washed off. Eventually, the stream was pointed in the right direction toward the imagined embers that had once been our schoolhouse. Mr. Redding promptly said, “All right, that’s it! Let’s go back inside!” It was Johnny Trump who asked the obvious question, “How long did it take, Mr. Redding? How long did it take?” There was no response.
The question was now chorused by a multitude, “How long did it take, Mr. Redding?” With some difficulty, Mr. Redding extracted his run-down stopwatch from a wet pocket. With a sigh of resignation he said, “Twenty-nine minutes, fourteen and five-tenths seconds.”
I glanced over at our hypothetical fire. Our schoolhouse had just burned down.
Through the years I have observed again and again that bright uniforms and shiny engines are useless if we don’t have the right wrench. Success comes to those who plan ahead and pay attention to details. Since that day on the school ground I have never accepted a responsibility without asking myself, “Am I really prepared? Do I have the right wrench?”

by Barbara Marler
“Threads of Forever” was the theme of a special service project undertaken at a biregional Young Women’s conference for the Dallas and Fort Worth Texas regions.
Ninety quilts were completed by 1,200 Young Women. Girls from 8 stakes and 72 wards steadfastly stitched for 9 months with the goal of donating their handiwork to homeless children.
The quilts were presented in a special luncheon. A local television broadcaster accepted the quilts on behalf of homeless children. In his acceptance, the newsman said, “Children become homeless because of unfortunate events in their past. They are victims of neglect or even abuse. For many of these children, this could be the first time that someone has truly cared.”
At first, the prospect of creating numerous quilts was a little overwhelming to some of the girls. Many had never quilted and felt that quilting was something that only grandmothers did. But the project turned out to be more fun than work.
The young men and women from the Honshu Japan Servicemen’s district held their annual youth conference in Tokyo. For many of the youth who came long distances, it was the first time they had seen Tokyo. In addition to discussion workshops held on a variety of subjects, the youth went to the Tokyo Temple to do baptisms for the dead. After three days of sightseeing and enjoying each other’s company, the highlight of the conference was the testimony meeting where the participants were able to express their feelings about the gospel.
Young men in the teachers quorum of the Draper Fifth Ward, Draper Utah Stake, felt a need to be unified. The younger members of the quorum did not feel close to the older members. In a few days of vacation from school, the group decided to explore a nearby part of their state together. Through shared experience they hoped to find new friendships.
The group drove a few hours south into a strangely bleak and beautiful area of Canyonlands National Park. With red sandstone cliffs, twisted pinnacles of rock, and flat-topped mesas, the land was as dramatic as they had hoped for.
The late nights spent talking around the campfire and the days filled with exploring the Anasazi Indian ruins and swimming in the nearby rivers served as a common ground around which new friendships could grow. Through the fun of being together, the group found new unity.

Some years ago Elder Marion D. Hanks told about a group of Boy Scouts who went cave exploring. The narrow trail was marked with white stones and lighted in sections as they went. After about an hour they came to a huge, high dome. Below it lay an area called the Bottomless Pit, so called because the floor of the cave had collapsed into a deep, gaping hole. It was hard not to jostle each other on that narrow path. Pretty soon, one of the bigger boys accidentally pushed a smaller boy into a muddy area away from the light. Terrified as he lost his footing, he screamed in the darkness. The ranger heard his cry of terror and came quickly. The boy let out another cry as the beam of the ranger’s light showed that he was right on the very edge of the pit.
In this story, the boy was rescued. But this does not always happen. So many times young people are enticed to go to the very edge or even beyond it. With only a precarious toehold, it is easy to be seriously injured or even die. Life is too precious to throw away in the name of excitement or, as Jacob said in the Book of Mormon, “looking beyond the mark.”

I recently received a letter from a sister serving a mission in Siberia that showed how a small group of Russian sisters was engaged in this active kind of love. Sister Okelberry said:
“I am proud to report that the women of Siberia have caught the vision of the Relief Society. Sister Kappenkova, a six-month Church member, has risen to the mighty challenge of Relief Society president of this northernmost group in Russia. She, along with her counselors, understands the importance of visiting teaching and is helping these sisters serve each other and build each other—saving them from the dangers of inactivity. They are teaching each other precious gospel principles and valuable skills in leadership as mothers, wives, and women in the Church. Conditions are not easy for them. Yet they understand and have already embraced those immortal words ‘Charity Never Faileth.’ It has been an honor to watch this develop right before my eyes.
“With only one short and very precious week left of my missionary time, I know that my sisters will be left in good hands—they are all taking care of each other” (letter from Michelle Okelberry, 31 Jan. 1996).

The sisters in Cache Valley, Utah, ministered to the Saints in the spirit of the Relief Society to “work in unity to help those in need.”5 My great-grandmother Margaret McNeil Ballard served at the side of her husband, Henry, as he presided as bishop of the Logan Second Ward for 40 years. Margaret was the ward Relief Society president for 30 of those years. She took into their home the poor, the sick, and the widowed and orphaned, and she even clothed the dead in their clean temple robes.

I grew up in the Church—I went to the activities, and I participated in family prayer and scripture study. But I didn’t really have a testimony. I didn’t know if I believed in God or His Son. I didn’t know if the Book of Mormon was true.
I wanted a testimony, but I felt frustrated after praying many times without feeling like I had received an answer. I started wondering, “If God is real, why won’t He show me? Why does He let me sit here wondering?”
Looking back, I can see clearly why I wasn’t getting an answer: I wasn’t really putting in the effort. I would read my scriptures for five minutes once a week and expect some revelatory experience just because I asked for it.
I didn’t understand that faith is a principle of action.
Anyone looking from the outside would have called me “active” in the Church, but I still didn’t know if the Church was true. But I did want to know.
So I decided to serve a mission. I incorrectly assumed that as a missionary, I would automatically be more likely to get answers from God. I still wasn’t putting much effort into praying or studying, but soon I had my assignment.
At the start of my mission, I struggled to feel the Spirit while training online during the pandemic because of my half-hearted effort. But then I got to the missionary training center in person. And my time there was the most spiritual experience of my life. It was the first time I had a simple seed of faith that was real.
Finally entering the mission field was hard. I felt like the small testimony I had gained got lost.
One day I was crying, and then a memory popped into my head. My dad used to ask me how my day at school was, and I would always say it was boring. And he would say, “Well, that’s because you made it boring. If you want school to be fun, make it fun.” I realized that I could either make the most of my time on my mission through learning and growth or I could be miserable.
So I prayed with more sincerity than ever to tell Heavenly Father that I was going to try and change my attitude. After that, I was motivated to put in new effort. I started to truly study and pray and ponder, and over time that glimmer of testimony came back—and continued to grow. I was less frustrated, and I started finding joy in the gospel.
I was never going to strengthen my faith without changing my attitude, following this pattern, and putting my full heart into connecting with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. When I made those changes, I started to receive answers and believe truths.
For onlookers, my level of activity in the Church probably looks the same as it always has. But I’ve changed my commitment to the gospel in my heart. And that has made all the difference.