Gospel Story Finder

I never really read the New Era until just recently. Oh sure, I read one or two articles that caught my eye and, of course, Mormonisms. I have to admit that I never realized the great messages I was missing. Being 16 and full of questions about the Church and the views of our leaders on many topics, I was and am still looking for sources to answer them. Somehow I always overlooked the New Era until two weeks ago when I was asked to be on my Laurel class New Era bowl team. Finally I had to read the whole magazine, every article. To my surprise I found that I learned more about the things I had wondered about than from anything else I had ever read, except for the scriptures. Immediately after the bowl I ordered my own subscription. I now read the magazine from cover to cover, a habit I picked up from the New Era bowl, and it has been the smartest thing I have done in a very long time! I save every issue and use them for seminary devotionals and talks as well as for personal reference.
Caroline WootonTempe, Arizona

New Era: Besides the change in your life, has the gospel had an influence on your baseball career?
Brother Killibrew: Yes, in many ways. One of the most dramatic was demonstrated when I ruptured the hamstring muscle in my left leg in an all-star game. There was a real question as to whether I would ever play again. I was using crutches. Two bearers of the priesthood administered to me. After that I no longer needed the crutches, and my leg healed up very nicely. The next year was the year I got the Most Valuable Player award.

When the Manti Utah Temple was under construction some 120 years ago, George Paxman worked as a finish carpenter. He and his young wife, Martha, had one child and were expecting another.
While hanging one of the heavy east doors of the temple, George suffered a strangulated hernia. He was in terrible pain. Martha laid him in a wagon and took him to the town of Nephi, where she put him on the train and took him to Provo. There he died. Spurning marriage, she remained a widow for 62 years, supporting herself with needlework.

In our worldwide youth devotional last June, I spoke about a young man whose life changed when his parents exchanged his smartphone for a flip phone. This young man’s mother is a fearless woman of faith. She saw her son drifting toward choices that could prevent him from serving a mission. She took her pleadings to the temple to know how best to help her son. Then she followed through with every impression.
She said: “I felt the Spirit guiding me to check my son’s phone at specific times to catch specific things. I don’t know how to navigate these smartphones, but the Spirit guided me through all the social media that I don’t even use! I know the Spirit helps parents who are seeking guidance to protect their children. [At first] my son was furious with me. … But after only three days, he thanked me! He could feel the difference.”
Her son’s behavior and attitudes changed dramatically. He became more helpful at home, smiled more, and was more attentive at church. He loved serving for a time in a temple baptistry and preparing for his mission.

I don’t make much money at my job. Not when I have to support my driving habit and my taste in clothes and all my records and tapes and a minor addiction to buying four science fiction novels a week. I began to discover the joys of walking.
Do you have any idea how many barking, savage dogs there are on an average residential block in a California suburban community? (Seven—one with rabies.)
Do you know how many steps it takes to go a mile and a half to school on foot? (Exactly 3,168, unless you have a blister and take shorter steps.)
Do you know how hot it gets when you walk outside in the summer in California? And they don’t even air-condition the street.
I also discovered that rain is wet, wind is cold, passing cars like to go fast through puddles to splash you, and you meet the strangest people waiting for the WALK signal at a busy intersection.
And even with all that walking, my automobile leasing bill was still horrendous. I had given up on the LTD except for dates, but even with the Volkswagen I was paying $30 or $40 a month.
“I give up,” I said. “I won’t do any more business with this rip-off car leasing business.”
“Really?” asked Father, looking up from his copy of the San Jose Mercury.
“Really,” I said. “I will not pay your fees. I will not drive your cars.”
“Mother!” Father called. “Jerry has decided to become a pedestrian!”
“I have not,” I said. “I have decided to take my patronage elsewhere.”
“Where?” he asked.
“If Hertz is good enough for O. J. Simpson, it’s good enough for me.”
As I left the room Dad called after me, “But, Jerry! We try harder!”
I came back three hours later. Whipped. Beaten. Defeated.
“Do you know what they charge?” I asked.
“A lot?” Father guessed helpfully.
“I couldn’t rent a pair of roller skates from them for less than $50 a month.”
“Ah.”
“You and Mom may be a rip-off leasing company, but at least you’re competitive.”
“Oh, come off it,” Father said, laughing. “We have the best rates in town.”
“I want to buy a horse,” I said.
“I can get you a good price on hay,” Father answered. He laughed and laughed. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I managed to keep a smile off my face until my bedroom door was closed behind me. Then I laughed.

Many years ago my father built a small cabin on part of the ranch property where he had been raised. The vistas across the meadows were exceptional. When the walls were framed in for the cabin, I made a visit. I was surprised that the window with the view focused directly on a power pole that was a short distance from the house. To me, it was a huge distraction from the magnificent view.
I said, “Dad, why did you let them put the power pole directly in front of your view from the window?”
My father, an exceptionally practical and calm man, exclaimed with some emotion, “Quentin, that power pole is the most beautiful thing to me on the entire ranch!” He then made his case: “When I look at that pole, I realize that, unlike when I grew up here, I will not have to carry water in containers from the spring up to the house to cook, wash my hands, or bathe. I will not have to light candles or oil lamps at night to read. I want to see that power pole right in the middle of the view window.”
My father had a different perspective on the power pole than I did. To him that pole represented an improved life, but to me it was a stumbling block to a magnificent vista. My dad valued power, light, and cleanliness above an aesthetic view. I immediately realized that while the pole was a stumbling block for me, it had great practical, symbolic meaning to my father.
My father saw the pole as a means of providing power, light, and abundant water for cooking and cleansing. It was a stepping-stone to improving his life.

At least once a year, an environmental inspector visits our school district. Typically, the inspector is cordial and small talk is common. Such was the case with Ryan Pethtel. Ryan noticed pictures of my family in my office, so during each visit we exchanged family stories.
During one visit, Ryan noticed a new wedding picture of my son and his wife at the Washington D.C. Temple. Our conversation turned to the temple, the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the Book of Mormon.
“My wife and I have been looking for a church,” he said. “I hope to give my children what you’ve given yours.”
In preparation for Ryan’s next visit, I wrote my testimony inside a copy of the Book of Mormon and took it to my office. But the next year a different environmental inspector came. Ryan no longer worked for the department. My heart sank, but I kept the book in my office in case I felt impressed to give it to someone else.
A year later, however, I received an email from Ryan to set up a visit. He had returned to his old job. When he arrived, our conversation eventually shifted to the Church. When I handed Ryan the copy of the Book of Mormon, he excitedly flipped through it.
A few months later, I joined my husband, Bill, on a high council speaking assignment in Mannington, West Virginia—Ryan’s hometown. Afterward, a sister in the chapel asked me if I knew Ryan and if I had given him a Book of Mormon. She was Ryan’s wife, Stephanie.
Stephanie said she and Ryan had planned to be baptized the night before, but Ryan was sick. What a blessing in disguise! Bill and I were able to attend their rescheduled baptism three weeks later. At their baptism, Ryan mentioned that the Book of Mormon I had given him remained untouched until his wife contacted the missionaries.
My part in their conversion began with placing a picture of the temple in my office. The picture led to a conversation. The conversation led to the Book of Mormon.
Each act was small, but the consequence was great (see Doctrine and Covenants 64:33). My heart swells with gratitude that my small actions made a big difference and led someone to the Savior.

Relaxed in their shirtsleeves on a warm spring day in 1897, the McKay brothers, David O. and Thomas E., sat at a table in their rented cottage, reading their mail.
For David O., this was a time of triumphant climax in his college career and of great expectations for a new world to conquer. His hopes and spirits were high.
After three years in the university’s normal school, he felt ready to resume his chosen career as a teacher, a career he had interrupted to complete his own schooling. Before coming to the university, he had graduated from the Weber Stake Academy in Ogden, Utah, and had returned to his beloved Huntsville, as principal and teacher in the town’s little school.
A year of teaching whetted his appetite for more training, and he again became a student, enrolling at the university. In those three years of college, he displayed qualities that would help carry him to the pinnacle of leadership in the Church.
He was elected president of his class and played on the university’s football team.
A highly prized employment opportunity had been offered him in Salt Lake County, through the recommendation of the university’s teacher training director.
Most important of all, he had found the most wonderful girl in the world, Emma Ray Riggs, and she was willing to become Mrs. McKay. The future, indeed, seemed full of promise for David O. McKay.
Then he read the letter. In a moment, all his hopes seemed dashed. He was called to serve for two years in the British Mission. Swallowing disappointment, he accepted the call. It proved to be a marvelous time of spiritual growth.
He never regretted his decision. Teaching opportunities and Emma Ray awaited him on his return.

On a day I felt like my life was falling apart, my parents found out about my trials and guided me toward the Savior and His Atonement. It was a turning point in my life. I met with my bishop, and he and my dad gave me a blessing. It was the first time in six years I had felt the Spirit. It felt tangible.
It’s taken time and effort, but because of my Savior, Jesus Christ, I’ve been able to repent and grow stronger as a person. I’ve seen beautiful miracles in my life that are a direct result of the saving power of Christ’s Atonement.
I now spend my time as a public speaker, traveling the country and speaking to youth groups, schools, and communities about the harmful effects of social media and pornography. I teach about the importance of mental health and the need for suicide prevention. I’ve built a platform on social media that I can use for good. I just graduated high school. I’ve built two businesses and strong relationships with those I love. Most importantly, I’ve found God again. I have a sure testimony of God the Father, His Son, Jesus Christ, and Their power and influence.
None of this has happened because I have extra special talents or unusual abilities. Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I’ve been able to repent, overcome challenges, and find peace and healing. If you think you’re too far gone, my answer to you is that you’re wrong. I was willing to surrender to the redeeming power of Jesus Christ. You can too.

Elder Brook P. Hales related the story of Sister Patricia Parkinson, who was born with normal eyesight but by age 11 had gone blind.

Elder Hales recounted: “I’ve known Pat for many years and recently told her that I admired the fact that she is always positive and happy. She responded, ‘Well, you have not been at home with me, have you? I have my moments. I’ve had rather severe bouts of depression, and I’ve cried a lot.’ However, she added, ‘From the time I started losing my sight, it was strange, but I knew that Heavenly Father and the Savior were with my family and me. … To those who ask me if I am angry because I am blind, I respond, ‘Who would I be angry with? Heavenly Father is in this with me; I am not alone. He is with me all the time.’”

As a boy, David O. McKay wanted to know for himself that Joseph Smith was a prophet. One day while looking for cattle, he got off his horse and knelt under a serviceberry bush.
He asked Heavenly Father for a spiritual witness, then waited for something wonderful to happen. Nothing did.
David: If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.
Disappointed, he got back on his horse and rode away.

The hollow feeling in my stomach slowly spread through my chest, and my throat tightened until I could no longer speak. The early winter drizzle even made the sky seem to weep as Amanda crept toward the car, her steps painful and faltering.
“I’ll get that,” I blurted, my mind jolted from numbness by her fumbling with the door handle. I opened the car door and watched in embarrassed silence as she maneuvered her body into the car. I shut the door after making sure her brace was completely inside. She looked at me through the rain-spattered window. “Thanks, Sara,” she mouthed. I nodded my reply and got in the other side.
My thoughts drifted back to another day. Summer sunlight had washed over the neighborhood that morning, soaking its warmth into our shoulders and the tops of our heads as Amanda and I rode our horses to the shopping center by our apartment. Well, they weren’t real horses. At least, they weren’t alive and you couldn’t see them. But they were real to us, and we rode them everywhere, always careful to tie them up before going inside. If we rode in a car, we tied them to the bumper and they followed behind. We even named them after our favorite ice-cream dishes at Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor: Starlight and Anastasia.
Amanda’s dad had picked us up later that afternoon in his car and dropped me off at home. It was the next morning before I learned that they had been in an accident and that Amanda had been severely burned.
The car jostled as it turned into the parking lot of Gabby’s Ice-Cream Parlor, bringing me back to the present. I had promised Amanda while she was still in the hospital that we would go to Gabby’s to celebrate her recovery. Now I wondered if I’d made the right decision.
Mom let us out in front of the plate-glass window that framed a row of booths. Amanda emerged from the car slowly. There were still some bandages on her arms, and one leg was encased in a metal brace. The spattering of freckles I had been jealous of was gone. In its place was whitish skin that stretched and pulled, as if there wasn’t enough to cover her face.
Heads turned and peered around the huge yellow and blue letters painted on the window. One little girl pointed at us. Her mouth moved in silent conversation. The woman beside her looked embarrassed and moved her away from the window. I squared my shoulders and returned their stares for Amanda’s sake. Defiance turned to surprise as I saw that their sad-eyed looks were directed at me too. I walked a few steps ahead of Amanda, my arms and legs swinging in exaggerated rhythm. Can’t you see there’s nothing wrong with me, I thought, my surprise turning to anger.
Finally we were inside and seated at a table. I studied the menu intently, as if it were directions to unearthing a million dollars in gold. I just about had everything memorized by the time our waitress got there. “I’ll have the Starlight Sundae,” I said, without looking up.
“I’ll have the Anastasia,” Amanda said quietly.
The waitress collected the menus. I counted the flowers in the pink flocked wallpaper and traced the marbled pattern in the tabletop with my finger until the sundaes arrived.
I usually lingered over every bite, enjoying the contrast of the smooth mint ice cream against the sharp bits of chocolate on my tongue. But today I only wanted to finish as quickly as possible. As soon as Amanda had taken her last bite, I wadded up my paper napkin and tossed it on the table.
“We’d better go,” I announced and added lamely, “I’m sure Mom’s outside by now.” Amanda offered no resistance.
I walked ahead to get the door. Amanda shuffled through, but instead of turning to the left, where Mom was waiting, she turned to the right and raised her burned hand slightly. I heard the familiar soft clicking noise that we used to call our horses.
“Come on, Anastasia,” she said softly. “Let’s go, girl”—her whisper was punctuated by a great, deep sob—“far away from here.” Her shoulders shook; her breath came in gasps. Tears dropped from her nose and chin onto the scarred hands she clasped tightly in front of her.
The hollow feeling in my stomach returned, and my throat tightened again. I felt helpless. I wanted to make people stop staring. I wanted to smooth her lumpy skin and give her back her freckles. I wanted to go back and change what happened that summer day and erase her pain.
I looked long into Amanda’s eyes for the first time since her accident. They shared the pain her physical body had endured. But there was more. Behind the pain were the eyes of the friend I had always known. Burned and scarred skin may have changed the outside, but Amanda would always be Amanda on the inside.
I put my arm around her shoulder. The rain had stopped. Despite the chilly air, the sunshine warmed the tops of our heads and our shoulders as we walked side by side to the car, oblivious to anyone else. Things would be different—and yet the same. I held on to Amanda’s hands and gently helped her onto the car seat. Then I picked up her leg by the steel bars that supported it and helped her position it in the car.
A smile appeared through her tears. “Thanks,” she said.
Our eyes met again, and I returned her smile. “Sure,” I replied. Then I added quietly so that only Amanda could hear, “I’ll tie the horses’ reins to the bumper so we can ride them when we get home.”

Girls in the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake, working for their Summiteer Award in the Young Women camp program, mounted horses and headed for Dead Horse Point on a riding adventure.
For most, riding horses on mountain trails with a sleeping bag tied on behind was a new experience. After receiving instructions on the care of her horse (each girl was expected to brush, saddle, bridle, feed, and hobble her assigned horse during the trip), they headed into the mountains. Past camp experience prepared them for making camp with a minimum of equipment, but long hours in the saddle had the girls discovering new, untested muscles.
After maneuvering up a steep trail to a site appropriately named Dead Horse Point, the group was treated to a spectacular view of the Teton Range from the summit.
At the end of the three days, the girls and their leaders were becoming accustomed to the skills needed to ride the mountain trails. With rain threatening, the group broke camp, loaded the horses, and headed home from an adventure that brought them closer together and left them confident of their abilities to survive and enjoy the outdoors.

Sara, her mentally retarded brother Charlie, and her pretty older sister Wanda all live with Aunt Willie. It has been an impossible summer for Sara, but one day white swans appear on the lake near their home. Charlie is fascinated by the great white birds. That night Charlie disappears. Sara spends anguished hours searching for him the next day. Finally Charlie is found. Sara also finds that things were not as she had thought, and that this and no other summer will be the same.
This book has just won the Newbery Award for the most distinguished children’s book for 1971.

Brother Consky was an old, bent man with deep wrinkles and feathery white hair. He lived down our street in a small, beat-up house that seemed kind of spooky to us kids. Big strips of red paint had peeled off the outside walls, and ugly weeds grew wild everywhere. Once in a while Brother Consky pulled his curtains back and peeked out at us as we played, which made him seem spooky too. We decided to keep clear of him.
We would have done just that if it hadn’t been for Mom. “Boys,” she called to my brother, Jeremy, and me one day. “I need you to run dinner over to Brother Consky.”
Jeremy and I stared at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.
In the kitchen, we pleaded our cause. “Mom, we just can’t go. We’re in the middle of a very important scientific discovery (watching a spider devour a fly). We’ll miss the whole thing!” Our argument sounded good to us, but I guess it wasn’t very convincing to Mom.
She gave us that “if you know what’s good for you” look and handed us a couple of plates.
“It will only take a minute. Brother Consky is ill and can’t get his own meals. Dad has just been assigned as his home teacher, so you’d better get used to going over to his house. Besides, he could use your smiles. He doesn’t have any family to care for him.”
“Well, I’ll take the food,” I grumbled. “But I won’t promise a smile.”
Mom gave me another look and marched us out the door.
We walked slowly down the street and hesitated at the broken-down gate in front of Brother Consky’s house. It squeaked as we opened it. We stopped for a minute, then forced our trembling legs to walk through the scratchy weeds to the front door.
Jeremy slowly raised his hand and knocked timidly.
“Come in,” a raspy voice called out.
I hadn’t counted on going inside! I turned the doorknob and shoved Jeremy ahead. When I was sure it was safe, I followed him. For a moment I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Then my eyes began to focus, and I’ll never forget what I saw.
The room was empty except for an old gray couch where Brother Consky lay looking dull and sad. The floors were bare and cold, and the curtains torn and stained. There were no bright autumn leaves in vases like Mom put in our house. But worst of all were the walls. Green paint had faded and chipped, leaving great big spots of moldy gray plasterboard. It was a cold, dreary place, and I was glad when we were finally out in the sunshine again.
From then on, Jeremy and I took food over to Brother Consky every Wednesday and Sunday. Each visit was the same. We sat in the dark, moldy room, answered a few questions, and waited for our release into the bright world outside.
Fall passed slowly into the first week of December. Christmas trees and bright lights appeared in other homes but not in Brother Consky’s. One Wednesday he didn’t answer our knocks.
“Try the door,” I said. “He’s always up waiting for us.”
I knew that if we returned home with plates still full of food, Mom would send us right back.
The rusty knob turned, and the door clicked open.
“Brother Consky?” I called. “Are you here?”
The house was dark and still except for the eerie humming of the refrigerator.
“Brother Consky?” I called again as I walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Then, “Jeremy!” I yelled. Jeremy came running into the room. Brother Consky was hunched up on the floor. “Run and get Mom and Dad.”
My heart pounded faster as I sat there and waited and watched. As much as I had complained about going to Brother Consky’s every week, deep down inside, I liked him. I didn’t want him to die. Tears stung my eyes, and I quickly brushed them back as Mom and Dad hurried into the room.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know. I just found him like this.”
“Quick, Ken. Call the ambulance.”
Soon I heard the whining siren. In a matter of minutes Brother Consky was lifted onto a stretcher and taken away.
Two weeks passed. Each Wednesday and Sunday Jeremy and I walked to Brother Consky’s and stood outside the broken gate.
“I wish he was here for us to visit now,” said Jeremy glumly one Wednesday.
“Me too.” I also wished that I’d never complained about going to his house.
The next night Dad announced that Brother Consky was getting better and would be coming home the day before Christmas.
Jeremy and I jumped out of our seats and cheered.
Later that night Jeremy and I lay wide awake trying to think of something special to give Brother Consky for his homecoming.
“How about bringing in a Christmas tree and decorating it for him,” suggested Jeremy.
“Great idea, but it’s not enough. It has to be something really neat.”
“Good night, boys,” Mom called upstairs. Somehow she always knew when we were whispering.
Jeremy rolled over and went to sleep, but I was too excited. I thought of Brother Consky cooped up in his house. I remembered when I’d been sick how awful it was to stay inside all day, staring at the same four walls. I had felt like a prisoner caged in a cell, and I’d desperately wanted to escape the walls that held me in. The walls—that’s it! The perfect gift!
The next morning, before I could even gulp any breakfast down, I told my family about my plan.
“Dad, I need your help on a special project.”
“Sure, James. What is it?”
“Jeremy and I want to give Brother Consky a welcome-home gift, and I have the perfect idea—newly painted walls! You’ve seen his house. How would you like to lie in bed staring at those ugly walls?”
I ran on excitedly, “We have over a week before he comes home. If we all pitch in and paint, it will be done and we can bring him into a bright new room!”
“That’s a great idea, James. We’ll get the paint and start on it tomorrow.”
I saw him wink at Mom.
Later, as I was rounding up paintbrushes, I heard Dad on the phone: “No, Stan. We won’t need the elder’s quorum now. Two Christmas elves beat you to the idea. We’re going to start tomorrow.”
Early in the afternoon on the twenty-fourth, Dad wheeled Brother Consky into his newly painted home. The walls glowed with fresh paint. The new curtains Mom had made were parted to let the sunshine in. A Christmas tree glistened with lights and tinsel. Outside, last summer’s dead weeds had been cleared away and the fence fixed. To Jeremy and me, it looked like a castle.
Brother Consky sat there stunned. For a moment no one spoke as his eyes wandered from wall to wall. Then a smile cracked his lips. He looked at Jeremy and then at me. I saw tears in his eyes. He reached out a shaky hand and took my hand and squeezed it. I moved closer than I’d ever been to him and threw my arms around his neck.
Jeremy and I still visit Brother Consky. Only now we don’t go just on Wednesdays and Sundays. We stop off almost every day on our way home from school. He likes to hear about what we’re doing, and he even helps us with our math. Best of all, we just like being there with him, listening to his stories.

After dinner with his family, Hal read through the term paper once more, and after correcting two typing errors, placed it in a yellow plastic cover. “Twenty-seven pages,” he thought. “That’s the longest paper I hope I ever have to do. I sure hope Mr. Gillam is interested in the post-war politics of Yugoslavia.” Hal put the paper with his other schoolwork. “I’m glad I started on it when I did, or I’d have never had it ready to turn in tomorrow,” he thought. “That man really expects a lot of us seniors.” With his homework finished, Hal went downstairs and watched a TV show with his little brother before going to bed.
Three houses down the street, Paul, another member of Mr. Gillam’s current affairs class, had gulped down a few bites of mom’s homemade lasagna, one of his favorite meals, and said, “Sorry, mom, I’ve just got to get that paper started—and finished!” and hurried to his room. His study desk was covered with notecards, most of them obviously written in haste. “At least I got some research notes taken at the library last night, so I can type all night if I have to.” He moved some of the cards aside to slide his typewriter into place, put a piece of paper in the machine, and looked at the first stack of cards. “I’ll just have to skip the first-draft stage,” he sighed, “not to mention the second-draft stage. This paper has to be turned in tomorrow morning or else.” As he started to type the one and only draft of the paper that Mr. Gillam would use to decide half of his semester grade, he wondered, “When will I ever learn to start sooner?”
Now, which paper will impress Mr. Gillam more? Right the first time! Obviously Head-start Hal’s paper has a much better chance of being organized and well-written, more thoroughly researched and error-free than does Procrastinator Paul’s. (Hal has a better chance of being awake in class tomorrow, too.)
It’s really the lazy man’s way of getting a job done. Here’s how it works. Let’s say you have a task to do that appears difficult and not too much fun and that needs to be done in two months. For example, the term paper assigned to Hal and Paul mentioned earlier. Most of us, on receiving such an assignment, go through a thought process something like this: “Two months is a long time, so I won’t worry about it for a couple of weeks. (You know the old saying: Never put off till tomorrow what you can put off till next week.) But I’ll surely get started then, and I’ll get it done on time.” In fact, that’s just what Paul thought! But those two weeks were soon gone, and he said, “I just don’t have time right now, but I’ll get to it.” And suddenly the two months had passed, and it was only two more days until the paper was due, and Paul ran to the library … and you know the rest.
But what did Hal do differently? When he got the assignment, he thought like this: (A) “I’d better get started on this. I’ll choose my theme by tomorrow.” (B) “I’ll start my research next Monday by looking up my sources and researching one book per day. That way I can get the main research and note-taking done in just a few minutes a day in the library. By doing one book per school day for three weeks, I’ll have 15 sources.” (C) “Then I’ll start the writing and organizing of the paper.” (D) “Two days before the paper is due, I’ll type the final draft so that the night before it’s due, I can make any corrections needed.”
Is Hal really a better student than Paul is? No, they both seem concerned and conscientious, but Hal’s methods certainly are more effective. Let’s analyze those methods. Notice that Hal had a plan. Notice too that Hal did the main part of his work by sneaking up on it, by doing a little at a time, so that it didn’t seem like a big job. He managed his research in 20 minutes a day over 15 days. That’s 5 hours, but, since it was spread out, it didn’t seem hard. Paul did his research all at once, on the next-to-last night. And it was work.

My spirit seemed to resonate with the exposure I had as the missionaries taught my sister, but my parents concluded that as a 10-year-old boy, I was too young to make important decisions and was forbidden to join the Church. However, through the constant efforts of my sister Carol and her husband, David Dellinger, in March 1978, my father, mother, younger sister, and I were all baptised. A year later my older brother, Leon, and his wife, Elizabeth, entered the waters of baptism. All my immediate family were now members of the Church.

From the time I received the first birthday dollar from my grandmother I was taught to save one dime to return to the Lord as tithing. Tithing settlements were something I always looked forward to. I loved to watch the bishop put a check mark by the words “full-tithe payer” and know that the Lord was pleased with me.
I’d never held much of a job growing up, and most of my income came from baby-sitting. I kept my tithing in a separate envelope until I remembered to take it to church. Often six months worth of tithing went with me to tithing settlement.
When I got my first job after high school, I decided to open a checking account so that I would have easier access to my money. Unfortunately, I didn’t open a savings account for my tithing, and I hadn’t formed the habit of paying it on a monthly basis. But I lived at home and spent very little money, so I didn’t worry much about it.
I loved working as a nurses’ aide at the local hospital, and by the first of December I decided to apply for admission to the nearby junior college. I counted what I had in the bank and was excited to confirm that I had enough money for housing and tuition for the next three semesters if I finished working the rest of the month.
So I went to the college, made a down payment for my housing, and paid my tuition. The rest of the housing money was due when I started school the first week of January.
It was then that I realized I had forgotten to take into account the tithing that was outstanding when I balanced my books. What was I going to do?
When my tithing settlement appointment came, I was still unsure how I would handle my situation. It was the first settlement I had attended without my family, and as I sat waiting for my turn, I was tempted for the first time in my life to not pay a full tithe. After all, I reasoned, I’d always paid a full tithe before. What would just this one year matter? Besides, I could always make it up during next year. And my family wouldn’t be there to hear me pronounce the words “part-tithe payer.”
All the stories I’d ever heard about people paying their tithing and still being able to meet bills came to my mind. But they don’t apply to me, I thought. I’m in this situation because I put myself here. I just simply have to choose. Do I want to pay a full tithe, or do I want to go to college?
I still wasn’t sure until the bishop looked me in the eye and asked, “Does this amount represent a full tithe?”
“It doesn’t now, but it will,” I answered as I took out my checkbook and wrote a check for the 80 dollars I owed. Peace flooded over me, and I knew I had made the right choice.
After praying about my situation, I decided to go ahead with my plans for college. I went to the housing office, and I was given a two-week extension. Then I went looking for a job. I found one in the cafeteria, but I wouldn’t be paid in time to meet my obligation.
On the last day of the extension I went to the mailbox and found a check made out to me from the hospital. It was for 90 dollars for the accrued sick and personal-leave days I had not taken. I had no idea it was coming. I now had enough for my tithing and the 80 dollars I owed at the housing office.
This time I paid my tithing first.

When Nick H. was thinking about ideas for an Eagle Scout project, he knew he wanted to do something meaningful and personal—something that represented a unique contribution from him.
“I remember sitting on my couch in my living room and thinking, ‘We all have talents and skills and abilities. How can we use those gifts from Heavenly Father to bless the lives of others?’” says Nick, 19. As this question went through his head, he thought of his love of running and then asked himself how he could combine serving others with running.
And thus was born an event that has become an annual Christmastime tradition in Nick’s community in southern Indiana.
For his Eagle Scout project, Nick organized a 5K run and partnered with a local charity that helps fulfill the needs and Christmas wishes of disadvantaged children. Those who signed up for the race received information about specific children’s needs and pledged to fill them. Through an arrangement with a local store, racers could also get discount prices on the items they purchased for the children. In addition, Nick organized donations for a Christmas dinner at his ward’s meetinghouse for the families of the children, who would be presented with their gifts there.
About 15 runners participated in Nick’s Eagle Scout project four years ago. But everyone who participated felt it was so worthwhile that it should be held again the next year. A nonprofit organization was created, and the event has been held each year since. Both Latter-day Saint youth and non-LDS youth have organized the event, which had 300 participants last year, as well as a great deal of community support, including offers from other local churches to host the dinner.
Other lessons have come through this service as well. For Nick, who is now serving a mission in Honduras, the story of this Eagle project that grew into so much more is a lesson about what youth can accomplish. “I’ve noticed the fire of the youth spirit,” he says. “It doesn’t set boundaries. It doesn’t say, ‘Oh, this isn’t possible.’ Teens are innovative, they’re creative, they’re young, they’re vivacious. When they have a righteous goal and have the right mindset, they’re going to accomplish it.”

From this pulpit years ago, President Marion G. Romney recounted reading the Book of Mormon aloud, alternating paragraphs with his young son, he on the bottom level of a double-decker bed and his son on the upper. He thought his son was catching a cold but then learned that the tears came from his son feeling testimony that the book was true. And because they read together, both were blessed. (See Conference Report, Apr. 1949, 41.)