Gospel Story Finder

The mother of an eleven-year-old boy became very seriously ill. His father brought her to Salt Lake from Arizona. A few days later, this young boy wrote:
“We all feel now we will take better care of Mama if she comes home soon.”
Later he wrote: “We are very lonely without you. … We are very busy around here. We received the telegram and were very glad to know that Mama was out of danger. … I think I will close for it is getting bed time. Sister Allen told us in Religion Class that we should go to bed at eight o’clock so we could have enough sleep. Now it is nearly half past eight. Good bye. Your loving Son. Spencer Kimball.” (Quoted in Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball, Jr., Spencer W. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1977, p. 45.)
The very next day after he mailed this letter his mother passed away. The next day their bishop received a telegram, and all of the Kimball children were called out of school. They all ran home, and the bishop told them, “Your Ma is dead.” President Kimball later told of that incident:
“It came as a thunderbolt. I ran from the house out in the backyard to be alone in my deluge of tears. Out of sight and sound, away from everybody, I sobbed and sobbed. Each time I said the word ‘Ma’ fresh floods of tears gushed forth until I was drained dry. Ma—dead! But she couldn’t be! Life couldn’t go on for us. … My eleven-year-old heart seemed to burst.” (Spencer W. Kimball, p. 46.)

When I was first called as a bishop, I discovered that our record for subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine in the Sixth-Seventh Ward had been at a low ebb. Prayerfully we analyzed the names of individuals whom we could call to be magazine representative. The inspiration dictated that Elizabeth Keachie should be given the assignment. As her bishop, I approached her with the task. She responded, “Bishop Monson, I’ll do it.”

Elizabeth Keachie was of Scottish descent, and when she replied, “I’ll do it,” one knew she indeed would. She and her sister-in-law, Helen Ivory—neither more than five feet tall—commenced to walk the ward, house by house, street by street, and block by block. The result was phenomenal. We had more subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine than had been recorded by all the other units of the stake combined.

I congratulated Elizabeth Keachie one Sunday evening and said to her, “Your task is done.”

She replied, “Not yet, Bishop. There are two square blocks we have not yet covered.”

When she told me which blocks they were, I said, “Oh, Sister Keachie, no one lives on those blocks. They are totally industrial.”

“Just the same,” she said, “I’ll feel better if Nell and I go and check them ourselves.”

On a rainy day she and Nell covered those final two blocks. On the first one she found no home, nor did she on the second. She and Sister Ivory paused, however, at a driveway which was muddy from a recent storm. Sister Keachie gazed about 100 feet (30 m) down the driveway, which was adjacent to a machine shop, and there noticed a garage. This was not a normal garage, however, in that there was a curtain at the window.

She turned to her companion and said, “Nell, shall we go and investigate?”

The two sweet sisters then walked down the muddy driveway 40 feet (12 m) to a point where the entire view of the garage could be seen. Now they noticed a door which had been cut into the side of the garage, which door was unseen from the street. They also noticed that there was a chimney with smoke rising from it.

Elizabeth Keachie knocked at the door. A man 68 years of age, William Ringwood, answered. They then presented their story concerning the need of every home having the Relief Society Magazine. William Ringwood replied, “You’d better ask my father.”

Ninety-four-year-old Charles W. Ringwood then came to the door and also listened to the message. He subscribed.

Elizabeth Keachie reported to me the presence of these two men in our ward. When I requested their membership certificates from Church headquarters, I received a call from the Membership Department at the Presiding Bishopric’s Office. The clerk said, “Are you sure you have living in your ward Charles W. Ringwood?”

I replied that I did, whereupon she reported that the membership certificate for him had remained in the “lost and unknown” file of the Presiding Bishopric’s Office for the previous 16 years.

On Sunday morning Elizabeth Keachie and Nell Ivory brought to our priesthood meeting Charles and William Ringwood. This was the first time they had been inside a chapel for many years. Charles Ringwood was the oldest deacon I had ever met. His son was the oldest male member holding no priesthood I had ever met.

It became my opportunity to ordain Brother Charles Ringwood a teacher and then a priest and finally an elder. I shall never forget his interview with respect to seeking a temple recommend. He handed me a silver dollar, which he took from an old, worn leather coin purse, and said, “This is my fast offering.”

I said, “Brother Ringwood, you owe no fast offering. You need it yourself.”

“I want to receive the blessings, not retain the money,” he responded.

It was my opportunity to take Charles Ringwood to the Salt Lake Temple and to attend with him the endowment session.

Within a few months, Charles W. Ringwood passed away. At his funeral service I noticed his family sitting on the front rows in the mortuary chapel, but I noticed also two sweet women sitting near the rear of the chapel, Elizabeth Keachie and Helen Ivory.

As I gazed upon those two faithful and dedicated women and contemplated their personal influence for good, the promise of the Lord filled my very soul: “I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end. Great shall be their reward and eternal shall be their glory.”

I am so thankful for the New Era. It has really helped to let me know that I am not the only one with problems or questions. I really appreciated the article “In His Father’s Steps” in the September 1994 issue. I have played soccer for 7 of the 14 years of my life. My team sometimes plays on Sunday in tournaments. I often thought about keeping the Sabbath day holy and whether playing soccer on Sunday was breaking the commandment. This article helped me to make my important decision to not play soccer on Sunday. Others on my team have made the same decision since then.
Lisa SukerSandy, Utah

Stacy was thrilled to be with her family at the Nauvoo Illinois Temple open house. “I must remember everything I see,” she reminded herself. Grandma had not been able to come with them, but she had asked Stacy to pay close attention and tell her all about it later.
Stacy studied the beautiful paintings of Jesus Christ on the walls and the carved wooden handrails on the stairs. Even though many people were visiting the temple, she felt a deep peace, as if she were all alone. “I’ll tell Grandma about the peaceful feeling,” she thought.
After visiting the temple, Stacy and her family walked around Nauvoo, admiring some of the other buildings.
Suddenly Stacy realized that she was not with her family anymore. She searched all through a tall brick building, but they weren’t there. She felt a lump growing in her throat. She walked down the street as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
Then she remembered that Daddy had parked their car near the temple. “If I go to the temple, my family can find me,” she realized. She looked right and left but could not find the temple. Then she heard a voice in her mind. “Look up.” She obeyed the voice and saw the tall white temple spire with the angel Moroni on top. When she reached the temple, she found her family looking for her.
As she happily hugged her mother, Stacy said, “I’ll tell Grandma about the pictures of Jesus and the peaceful feeling. But first I’ll tell her that if you get lost, you should look up so you can find your way to the temple.”

Just how the dream came to be no one really knows, but Brother Anderson envisioned a complete historical file that could vividly tell the story of the Church in pictures, with a minimum of words. Such photographs, he reasoned, would be invaluable missionary tools to interest untold thousands, perhaps millions, in the Church.
But how could these pictures be produced? If only he could study the landscapes where the Prophet Joseph Smith was born, where he had his visions and revelations, where he built cities, and finally where he spilled his blood! Such a trip would take years and something else quite out of reach—money.
An opportunity for just such a trip came in 1907. Shortly after Brother Anderson was released as bishop of his ward in Springville, Utah, he was called to go on a mission to England. To get there, he would have to pass through historic Mormon country. Receiving permission to stop off and photograph the historic sites, he visited and photographed Nauvoo, Kirtland, Independence, New York, Vermont, Pennsylvania, and many sites in between. His pictures are a documentary of what these places looked like shortly after the turn of the century, spiced by the human interest of people who lived there at the time.
On his way home from his mission, Elder Anderson stopped off again to make even more pictures of historic Church scenes. And even after his return to Springville, he was still obsessed with the urge to document Church history. While he was in Arizona in 1928 to photograph the construction and completion of the Arizona Temple, he became ill and had to return home prematurely. He died 9 May 1928 in Springville, Utah.
After the funeral of George Edward Anderson, Eva Crandall, a young neighbor, wrote about “Our Village Photographer” for a local newspaper:
“The ground he traveled was hallowed to him. I can almost hear him say, ‘I must have a picture of this sacred spot. … When I return all will be changed. Some of these old landmarks will be obliterated. Who will see them as I see them now?’”

Illustration by Steven Keele
Envy is a strong word. When people talked about being “envious,” I knew it would never describe me. So when I listened to Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s talk “The Laborers in the Vineyard” in the April 2012 general conference, I didn’t really think he was talking to me. I tried to think of things I would occasionally be jealous of—someone’s dress, my friend’s bag, or my sister’s good grade. Yet all of these things came and went quickly; I never thought I dwelled on jealousy.
But as I went back and read Elder Holland’s words, his paraphrasing of a line from a parable stuck out to me: “Why should you be jealous because I choose to be kind?” (Ensign, May 2012, 31). Now, this was a different type of jealousy—not about material things but about someone’s choices. I began to think of the many times I may have been envious of my siblings, and then it clicked: this is exactly what I have been struggling with.
My little sister Mary is about to move out and start her first year in college, so I was talking to my dad about where she would work this summer. I knew he most likely had three jobs lined up for her like he had for me, because when I graduated from high school he made it very clear that if I planned on going to college, I would need a summer job. This was stressed so much that I even started a job the day of my graduation. I worked hard all summer and earned the money to pay my way through school. So naturally, when I was talking to my dad about Mary’s summer before college, I expected to hear the same story.
To my surprise, my dad explained that Mary would just be working at her part-time job until June and then take the summer off before school. Immediately several thoughts came to mind: “What about paying for school by yourself? How is she going to afford tuition? And what about paying for that nice apartment she’s decided to move into?” This just wasn’t fair.
I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but I let it continue to affect me. That is, until I reread Elder Holland’s conference talk. I read the question: “Why should you be jealous because I choose to be kind?” This time I changed it to fit my situation and asked myself: “Why should I be jealous that my parents are being kind to my sister?” Still a little upset, I then thought, “Well, why didn’t they show that kindness to me?”
I sat there pondering my emotions and then read through Elder Holland’s words again. This time I realized what I was missing: I had been looking for everything to be fair. In my eyes, the same thing that worked for me was obviously the right choice for the rest of my siblings. But Mary isn’t me. Mary is much more of a homebody than I am, and I started realizing how the transition to college might be tougher on her than it was for me. Maybe having a few months just to spend with my family is something she needs.
I suddenly felt embarrassed about my envious thoughts. Elder Holland compared envy with “downing another quart of pickle juice every time anyone around you has a happy moment” (Ensign, May 2012, 32), and that is not how I want to be.
I am so grateful for general conference and the inspired messages that are shared. I know that if we open our hearts to the messages of the living prophets and prayerfully search through their words several times, we will find what God wants us to hear at this time in our lives.

“What’s this?” Sam asked Mom, poking the pile of clothes on the kitchen chair.
“Sister Fernandez brought them over for you,” Mom said. “Why don’t you try them on while I finish making the salad?”
“OK!” Sam grabbed the clothes and headed to his room.
First he tried on a couple of T-shirts, one red and one blue. They fit just fine. So did the church pants, which was a good thing. His own church pants had been looking kind of short lately.
Next Sam tried on some jeans. Jeans were great for playing in, and they had lots of pockets. Sam slipped his hands into the front pockets. His right hand felt a piece of paper, and he took it out to see what it was.
The paper was a dollar bill.
“Oh!” Sam held the dollar in both hands. With a dollar, he could buy a candy bar or a bag of chips or a soda. If Mom took him to the dollar store, he could even buy a toy.
Sam sighed and set the dollar bill on the dresser. It wasn’t his.
Except—Sister Fernandez had given him the clothes, hadn’t she? So in a way, she had given him the dollar. She wouldn’t care, Sam thought. She wouldn’t even remember.
Sam started to leave the room. He tried not to look at the dollar on his dresser, but his eyes went back to the money. He didn’t feel right about keeping it.
Sam picked up the dollar and took it to the kitchen. “The clothes all fit,” he said to Mom. Then he showed her the dollar. “I found this in one of the pockets.”
Mom put down the salad spoon and fork she was holding. “What do you think you should do?”
“I should give it back to Sister Fernandez.”
Mom looked at the clock. “We have time for a quick trip,” she said.
When Sam and his mother got to Sister Fernandez’s house, she welcomed them inside.
“I like the clothes,” Sam said. “But I found this in the pocket of the jeans.” He held out the dollar.
Sister Fernandez looked pleased as she accepted the money. “That reminds me of when I was a girl and found some coins in the couch cushions. When I took them to my mother instead of spending them, she was so proud of me!”
Mom put her arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Just like I’m proud of Sam.”
“Sam, would you do me a favor?” Sister Fernandez asked.
Sam nodded.
“I’d like you to buy a treat for an honest boy I know,” Sister Fernandez said, and she gave the dollar back to Sam.
“Thank you!” Sam said. His heart felt full. He knew it wasn’t because of the dollar in his hand.
That night at dinner, Mom told the rest of the family what had happened.
Sam’s little sister Rachel stopped slurping her soup and said, “So you got a dollar today!”
“You got some new clothes too,” Dad said. “But that’s not all, is it?”
“No,” Sam said. “I got something better. I got to do the right thing.”

I was having a meltdown. I was working on a family history project, and I was getting nowhere. I was looking for a marriage certificate for my great-great-great- grandparents, but when I’d done a quick search on FamilySearch for their names, nothing had come up. I’d prayed to Heavenly Father that the Spirit would help and guide me, but I was starting to get frustrated because my prayer hadn’t been answered yet.
I started scrolling down matches again. No, no, no; this wasn’t helpful at all. I scrolled back to the top. Wait—I’d missed one! There were my grandparents’ names, but they were on a baby’s birth certificate. I called for my mom, and I told her I’d found a record of a baby named Sarah. I would have never imagined her response.
“We don’t have a known great-aunt by the name Sarah,” she said.
I checked the record. Yep, it was correct. We searched for her name by itself, and we found a death certificate for her. It was four days after she was born. I was ready to cry, but they were tears of happiness. My prayer had been answered. I had one thought: “We’ll all be together again.”

A few months later, my teammates on the Dixie State College debate team and I boarded a 15-passenger van, heading to the regional tournament in Casper, Wyoming, hundreds of miles away. After a stop for dinner, I had the backseat of the van all to myself. It was the perfect place to get extra sleep to be ready for the next day’s competition. Of course, by lying down I wouldn’t be able to wear a seat belt.
I was nearly asleep, when suddenly the Spirit reminded me of a conversation I had had with Johnny earlier in the week. As I drove Johnny and his father home from our house, he told me, “Remember to buckle your seat belt. I wish I had.”
At first, I thought I was just being paranoid. But the words kept coming into my mind, over and over, urging me to buckle up.
Finally, I listened. I buckled myself in and unsuccessfully tried to sleep. Meanwhile, we had entered a late-winter blizzard. As we made our descent into Casper, our van hit a patch of black ice, spun, went off the road, and rolled.
The next thing I remembered was waking up spitting mud and glass and wondering why I was suspended in midair. My seat belt had held me in place and saved me from being thrown from the vehicle. Fortunately, everyone in the van had been buckled in, and only two were slightly injured.
I am grateful on a night when I needed some sleep to get ready for a busy day that I was able to listen to the voice of the Spirit. I’m grateful I heeded that warning.

One of the persons who signed agreements (guarantees) for me when I began in the insurance business, was Brother Horace S. Eldredge, and as each bond required two signatures, he suggested that I ask Captain William H. Hooper to sign with him. I explained that I knew the Captain only slightly, and feared he would not care to become one of the persons liable in case of my failure. Brother Eldredge thought otherwise, so I solicited the Captain’s signature, but he promptly declined. I walked direct to my office and had been there but one or two minutes when a messenger from the Deseret National Bank, where I had just left the Captain, called and said that Mr. Hooper desired to see me. My answer was that I had just seen the Captain and our conversation had been of such a character that I had no particular desire for another interview. The messenger insisted that he had seen the Captain since I had, and I finally concluded: therefore, to go see him again.

On reaching the bank, the Captain said: “Young man, give me those bonds.” He signed them, and then said, “When you were here a few moments ago, I did not know you. I have met you on the street now and then for a number of years, and have spoken to you, but really did not know you. After you went out, I asked who you were, and when I learned that you were a son of Jedediah M. Grant I sent for you at once. It gives me pleasure to sign your bonds. I would almost be willing to sign a bond for a son of Brother Jedediah if I knew I would have to pay it. In this case, however, I have no fears of having to do that.”

He related a number of incidents about my father, which showed the Captain’s love for, and confidence in, him. What the Captain told me, filled my heart with gratitude to God for having given to me such a father, and Captain Hooper’s remarks have never been forgotten. They impressed me with a strong desire to so live and labor that my children would be benefited, even after I have passed away from this life, by the record which I shall have made.

The action of Captain Hooper profoundly impressed me with the benefits derived from having a good father. Although my father died when I was a babe nine days old, twenty years after his death I was reaping the benefits of his honesty and faithful labors. The incident referred to above happened twenty-three years ago. Many, many blessings have since come to me because of the honesty and integrity of my father.

Brothers, sisters, and friends, in 2013 my wife, Laurel, and I were called to serve as mission leaders in the Czech/Slovak Mission. Our four children served with us. We were blessed as a family with brilliant missionaries and by the remarkable Czech and Slovak Saints. We love them.
As our family entered the mission field, something Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin taught went with us. In a talk titled “The Great Commandment,” Elder Wirthlin asked, “Do you love the Lord?” His counsel to those of us who would answer yes was simple and profound: “Spend time with Him. Meditate on His words. Take His yoke upon you. Seek to understand and obey.” Elder Wirthlin then promised transformative blessings to those willing to give time and place to Jesus Christ.
We took Elder Wirthlin’s counsel and promise to heart. Together with our missionaries, we spent extended time with Jesus, studying Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John from the New Testament and 3 Nephi from the Book of Mormon. At the end of every missionary meeting, we found ourselves back in what we referred to as the “Five Gospels,” reading, discussing, considering, and learning about Jesus.
For me, for Laurel, and for our missionaries, spending time with Jesus in the scriptures changed everything. We gained a deeper appreciation for who He was and what was important to Him. Together we considered how He taught, what He taught, the ways He showed love, what He did to bless and serve, His miracles, how He responded to betrayal, what He did with difficult human emotions, His titles and names, how He listened, how He resolved conflict, the world He lived in, His parables, how He encouraged unity and kindness, His capacity to forgive and to heal, His sermons, His prayers, His atoning sacrifice, His Resurrection, His gospel.
We often felt like the “[short] of stature” Zacchaeus running to climb a sycamore tree as Jesus passed through Jericho because, as Luke described it, we “sought to see Jesus who he was.” It was not Jesus as we wanted or wished Him to be, but rather Jesus as He really was and is. Just as Elder Wirthlin had promised, we learned in a very real way that “the gospel of Jesus Christ is a gospel of transformation. It takes us as men and women of the earth and refines us into men and women for the eternities.”
Those were special days. We came to believe that “with God nothing shall be impossible.” Sacred afternoons in Prague, Bratislava, or Brno, experiencing the power and reality of Jesus, continue to resonate in all of our lives.

Last year, I decided to make a goal of saying my prayers every night. For a couple of nights, it was hard to remember to do it. Then I decided that I needed help to remember to say my prayers. So I prayed to Heavenly Father and told Him about my goal. I asked if He would help me remember to do it each night. And it worked! If I forgot and got into bed without praying, I felt like something was wrong or something was missing. The Holy Ghost helped me every night to reach my goal. My mom and dad were surprised and happy to find out about what I had accomplished. We had a family home evening about goals, and now everyone in my family is working on something!Jackson Barney, age 9Orem, Utah

Every year the North Ogden 14th Ward, North Ogden Utah Ben Lomond Stake, puts on a super service project, but last year’s was something special. They decided to provide a party and presents for the residents of an adult mentally handicapped facility.
Each family with a teenager was assigned one resident, so it became a family project as well. Each family provided a stocking with their friend’s name on it and several gifts.
The program included a puppet show of “The 12 Days of Christmas,” carols, a slide show with the residents’ pictures, and the reading of the Christmas story from Luke. It also included the making of many new friendships.

The boy you are encouraging may seem too timid to be a powerful priesthood servant. Another one of my sons was so shy as a little boy that he wouldn’t walk into a store and talk to a clerk. He was too afraid. I worried as I prayed over his priesthood future. I thought of him in the mission field—that didn’t sound promising. I was led to a scripture in Proverbs: “The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.”
I carved “Bold as a Lion” on his board, beneath an image of a large lion’s head roaring. On his mission and in the years that followed, he fulfilled the hope in my carving. My once-shy son preached the gospel with great conviction and faced dangers with bravery. He was magnified in his responsibilities to represent the Lord.
That can happen for the young man you are leading. You need to build his faith that the Lord can transform him into a servant braver than the timid boy you now see.

The 3:30 school bell rang. Matt dashed for the door, grabbed his coat from the hook, and jumped down the steps ahead of the other students. Once outside, he rounded the corner of the building. Pressing his palms against the wall, he inhaled deeply as though trying to disappear into the red bricks. His eyes searched for a possible hiding place, but there was none—no trees or bushes or anything—only the flat cement playground.
His heart pounded as he remembered Joe’s words from recess: “You just wait till school’s out. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Matt blinked back his tears and watched the others trooping out, yelling and shouting. Then he noticed Joe scanning the school yard.
How can I get away from him? Matt wondered. Cautiously he inched along the wall behind a screen of students, hoping he could make it to the back door without Joe spotting him.
When Matt finally reached the back corner, he scooted around it and went inside. With a sigh of relief, he ran to the front of the building and slipped into his own classroom. He stood behind the big plant near the wide window and watched where his tormentor went.
Joe was still asking questions of the students and looking around. But Matt could tell that no one knew where he had gone.
Matt heard the door open. Mrs. Scott came into the room and exclaimed, “Why, Matt! I thought you were in a hurry to get out of here. I’ve never seen anyone leave so quickly.” Then she noticed his white face. “Matt, are you sick?”
A tear slid down the boy’s cheek, and he quickly brushed it away and shook his head. “Joe’s after me. He says he’s going to beat me up. He’s out there now looking for me.”
Mrs. Scott stood with her hand on Matt’s shoulder and watched from the window. “Too bad about Joe,” she said.
“Why too bad for him? I’m the one who gets sick every morning because I’m afraid he’ll get me. Look! He thinks I got away. Maybe he’ll go home now,” Matt said, momentarily relieved. “But it’ll be the same all over again tomorrow.”
“Joe hasn’t much of a home to go to,” Mrs. Scott commented. “His mother died last year, and his father is out of a job. He has an older sister—and that’s all he has. He’s unhappy and can’t seem to concentrate on his schoolwork.”
“He’s mean, and he doesn’t like me,” Matt insisted.
“That’s what’s so sad about Joe. He really wants friends but doesn’t know how to get them,” Mrs. Scott said. “Why don’t you sit down here and read a little while until we’re sure Joe has gone. Then you can walk home without any trouble.”
Mrs. Scott continued to watch Joe from the window while Matt opened the book he had started during reading time. It was about Abraham Lincoln. His pounding heart settled down and his chin rested in the palm of his hand as his eyes scanned the pages. Suddenly something caught his attention. He reread a line several times, then exclaimed, “Mrs. Scott, listen to this! ‘Abraham Lincoln always destroyed his enemies by making them his friends.’”
“Very interesting,” Mrs. Scott responded. “But why does that make you so happy?”
“Well, Joe’s my enemy. Abraham Lincoln would destroy him by making him a friend. You said Joe needs friends. I wonder …”
“Maybe it would work, Matt,” Mrs. Scott remarked thoughtfully. “Joe’s gone home now, though.”
“For now I’m sure glad he goes north and I go south,” Matt replied. “See you in the morning, Mrs. Scott.”
All the way home Matt thought about how he could make Joe his friend. As he opened the kitchen door, he smelled the aroma of hot sugar cookies. “Mmmmm—cookies!” he said as he greeted his mother.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked. “I knew you’d want to help make the cookies, but I couldn’t wait any longer … Matt, is there something wrong?”
Matt sighed and sank into a chair. “I have a problem,” he replied. Picking up a warm cookie, he nibbled it thoughtfully. Then he had an idea! “Mom, would you make more cookies tomorrow?”
“You weren’t thinking about eating all of these tonight, were you!” she exclaimed.
“No, but maybe they’ll work with somebody else.”
“Maybe what will work? I don’t understand you these days, Matt. You have a stomachache every morning and don’t want to go to school. Then you’re late coming home. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Not yet, Mom. But you’ll understand tomorrow, if my plan works.”
The next morning Matt was nervous, but he didn’t have a stomachache.
“Have a good day,” his mother said as he started out the door.
“Maybe I’ll bring somebody home after school. Will you have the things ready to make cookies?” Matt asked.
“Yes, if you want me to, I will.”
Matt was at his desk early and was reading his Lincoln book when the other students entered the room. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe sauntering over to him. Matt’s stomach knotted as Joe leaned on his desk and hissed, “Where’d you disappear to yesterday?”
Matt swallowed hard and looked straight into Joe’s eyes. “Joe”—he swallowed harder—“my mom has something neat for us if you’ll come home with me today after school.”
Joe was taken completely by surprise. Then his face hardened as he leaned on Matt’s desk again with his fists clenched. “Sure. Big deal!”
Matt clenched his own fists under his desk and kept looking straight into Joe’s eyes. He forced himself to smile. “No kidding, Joe. You’ll like it!”
Joe’s face relaxed. “Your mom, huh? OK—I’m game!”
Matt stayed in at recess to help Mrs. Scott. He couldn’t take a chance on upsetting Joe on the playground and spoiling the whole thing.
After school Matt met Joe and asked, “Do you have to go home first and tell your mother you’ll be late?”
Now it was Joe who swallowed hard. “My mom’s not there. Nobody cares if I come straight home.”
“Oh,” Matt said, remembering too late what Mrs. Scott had told him about Joe’s family.
“I don’t have a mom anymore,” Joe went on. “What’s this neat thing supposed to be your mom has for us, anyway?”
Matt could tell that Joe’s wall of toughness was beginning to crumble. The two of them ran almost all the way to Matt’s house. His mother was smiling as they burst into the kitchen. “Well, I see you brought a friend.”
“This is my friend Joe, Mom. Oh, good, you have the things ready for the cookies.”
“Don’t forget to scrub your hands, boys,” Matt’s mother reminded them with a wink.
The boys helped Matt’s mother add all the ingredients for the soft dough, and then she rolled it out.
“Choose the cookie cutter you want, Joe,” Matt said.
Joe picked up a cookie cutter with the outline of a bat. Matt picked a ghost-shaped one.
Matt showed Joe how to cut out the cookies and put them carefully onto the cookie sheets with a spatula. Later they removed the baked ones just as carefully. They were really enjoying themselves by now. Occasionally they would eat some of the plain dough they pulled away from the cut cookies.
When all the cookies were baked, Matt’s mother made icing so they could decorate some of them.
“I’ve never done anything like this in my whole life!” Joe exclaimed. “Could I take a couple home to my sister?”
“Oh, you can take a box full,” Matt’s mother said with a smile of understanding. “Why don’t you two go out and play ball while the icing is setting?”
Later, as the boys packed the cookies in a flat box for Joe to take home, Matt thought happily to himself, Abraham Lincoln was right! You can destroy enemies by turning them into friends!

Riley and Ted were not only frightened when they heard voices and saw the light from flashlights darting about at the Indian digging grounds, they were angry too.
Grandfather had never plowed nor planted the south slope because he had discovered that the area was the site of an ancient Indian village. For many years he had tried to preserve the land even though he was poorer because of the loss of crops he might have raised there.
As a boy Grandfather had found a number of arrowheads and pieces of flint-edged tools on the slope. When he was older he had written many letters trying to interest scientists into exploring the area. Finally, a university archaeology team became interested in excavating the slope.
After a preliminary investigation, they had sent several crews of students to work under the direction of two experienced archaeologists. As various layers of earth were carefully stripped away, the teams became excited when they discovered that more than one ancient civilization had occupied the slope at different times.
Every arrowhead and fragment of bone or clay pot had to be tagged as they were removed so that the separate cultures could be studied. And now, looters were endangering the project!
The students and professors went home on weekends and Grandpa had gone to town to deliver a load of grain. He had not yet returned and Riley and Ted were the only ones left to protect the ancient site. They wondered how they could possibly stop the looters.
“If only we had a telephone, we could call the police,” Ted suggested as he watched the looters’ light.
“But we don’t have one, so there’s no use iffing,” Riley said. “Maybe I could slip through the trees and try to see who the thieves are while you run over to Mr. Howard’s and have him call the sheriff.”
“Okay, Riley,” Ted murmured uneasily, “but be careful. They might be armed.”
“I’ll be careful,” Riley assured him and then continued, “Lots of people have come to watch the digging, but I’ve noticed it’s Jim White and his friends who keep asking Professor Jackson how much money a war club or spearhead is worth. Maybe they’re the looters. They wouldn’t care about reconstructing history. They’d only want to find a two-dollar arrowhead or a bone knife they could sell. Wouldn’t it be great if some Indian ghosts showed up to haunt them? I’ll bet we’d see some hard-running thieves take off then!”
“Yes,” Ted said quietly as an idea began to form in his mind. That would beat running all the way to the Howard’s, he thought. But he didn’t mention it to his older brother who had already disappeared into the trees.
Grandfather had left a wide wooded area between the excavation site and his cultivated land that provided cover for Riley as he climbed the slope. Three-fourths of the way up the hill he stopped. The flashlights had converged on the canvas-covered area where boxes of tagged artifacts were stored before being taken to the university. It was Jim White and his friends all right. One of the lights passed over Jim’s face as he used a rock to hammer at the lock on a toolbox.
“Take the shovels and dig like crazy all along the trenches where those students work with tiny brushes and metal picks,” Jim ordered. “Don’t bother with junk like fragments. We just want stuff we can sell. We’ll show Professor Jackson how to grub out Indian relics!”
Riley felt sick as he thought of the slow, painstaking work of the students. They knelt in cramped positions for hours, hardly noticing the hot sun as they brushed soil away from a potsherd. And he was helpless to prevent the destruction of months of hard work!
Not only was he outnumbered, but the looters were much bigger than Riley. When the sheriff arrested them he could identify all the looters, but that wouldn’t restore the relics Grandpa had protected for so many years.
Suddenly Riley’s breath caught in his throat and he felt the hair stir on the back of his neck as an eerie moan sounded in the darkness. A voice rose and fell in angry waves but Riley couldn’t distinguish any words. In a few seconds he realized it was drifting down from the summit of the hill and not from the young men who had frozen in a huddle around the battered toolbox.
Riley shuddered and his heart began to thud like a tom-tom when Jim’s flashlight picked out a figure coming down the slope. It was an Indian dressed in a loin cloth and an elaborate war bonnet, astride a brown horse! His bronze skin glistened in the dim ray of light.
“A ghost! He’s gotta be a ghost!” someone shouted. No one took time to argue about it. The terrified group broke up and ran off in all directions, leaving behind any thoughts of looting.
Riley ran too, going as fast as he dared down the steep slope. He had never believed in spooks, but he was convinced he had just seen his first! And his last, too, he hoped.
“Wait a minute!” Riley gasped, tripping over a log and rolling against a tree. “That horse looked exactly like Grandpa’s Benjo! And the war bonnet is the one I wore in the Thanksgiving Day play at school!
“It worked, Riley! It worked! They thought I was a real Indian ghost!” Ted cried, as he caught up with Riley. “You said you wished a ghost would scare them away, so I rubbed brown shoe polish all over myself and got your old school costume out of the trunk. Did you see the way they took off? I guess those guys were really scared.”
“Yes, they were,” Riley agreed. Then with a sheepish grin he added, “And you had me fooled for a minute too.”

I have been flying many kinds of aircraft for the last 30 years, both in the United States and in Latin American countries. Not too long ago when I had returned to the States after an absence of some years, a very dear friend offered me the use of his new, twin-engine Cessna. It just happened to be one of my favorite aircraft. It not only had the special, powerful engines with turbo-superchargers that could take it up to very high altitudes, but it had all the radios, all the electronic navigational aids, the transponder, the distance-measuring equipment, full instruments for all-weather flight, oxygen, and so on, just like the commercial airliners. I couldn’t think of a more enjoyable plane to fly, but with so much equipment (this was a very expensive, sophisticated bird), I reluctantly passed up the chance, saying, “Someday we’ll go to Mexico together.”
A few months passed, and every time I saw my friend he offered his plane again, but I never felt I should accept, even though the offer was very sincere. Then one day my friend brought to my office a set of keys and a pilot’s manual as evidence that he really would be pleased if I would use his beautiful aircraft sometime. The keys in my hand generated an overwhelming desire to go down to Mexico to my favorite spot for deep-sea fishing. Unfortunately Jack couldn’t go the days I had free but assured me that I should go alone. We discussed my qualifications of being covered under his insurance policy, and it turned out that I needed a check ride with a qualified inspector as it had been some time since I had flown that particular type of plane.
The arrangements were made, and I met the inspector at the side of the airplane at the appointed hour with my licenses from the USA, Argentina, Paraguay, and Ecuador, and logbooks showing flights in Cessna 310s across jungles, mountains, deserts, international boundaries, etc. He smiled calmly but was unimpressed and said, “I’ve heard about you, and I have no doubt about how much flying you have done, but I have to assume that those flights were when nothing went wrong. Now let’s fire up this bird and see how well you fly it when everything goes wrong!”
For the next hour he made everything go wrong! He simulated every emergency he could think of. He turned things off that should have been on. He turned things on that should have been off. He tried to create disorientation or panic. He really wanted to know how well I could fly when everything did go wrong! In the end he climbed out, signed my logbook, and announced, “You’re okay. I’d let my wife and kids fly with you.” I took that as being a great compliment.

“I’d like to bear my testimony and give thanks to my Heavenly Father for my many blessings.”
The voice came from the back corner of the chapel. To the regular ward members it was a familiar voice and one that was often heard at testimony meetings.
A visitor, turning to see who was speaking, saw a boy bent over a folding chair, supporting his gaunt body on his arms while his legs hung limp behind him. How could this obvious cripple be thankful for his many blessings? What blessings?
When he was four years old, a series of tests disclosed that Stephen Farrance had a type of muscle disease, which, if it progressed as it had been doing, would kill him by the time he was 12.
“The impact and finality of the doctor’s verdict didn’t really register with us,” recalled his mother. “Stephen could do so many things. We just encouraged him to be independent. He had his regular chores to do just like his brother and sister. Then later, when the tendons pulled his feet up and he had to walk on his toes, we withdrew some of his responsibilities but gave him others. He went to a regular school and made a niche for himself.
“I remember one teacher telling me that she called Stephen and a new boy up to her desk at the same time. When Stephen arrived, he braced his feet and placed a hand on her desk. The newcomer said, ‘Are you okay?’, and Stephen said, ‘My feet don’t like to stop walking, and it takes me a minute or two to convince them. But, thanks, I’m fine now.’”
Stephen had difficulty sitting. By the time he was 12, he knelt on his chair during class and got callouses on his knees. But he didn’t believe in missing anything that he could take part in. He figured out ways to be part of what the other kids did. The following year his class decided to learn square dancing, and the teacher apparently told Stephen that he could go to the library and read while the others danced.
“But I’d rather take part,” Stephen told her.
“Just how do you propose to do that?” asked his teacher, startled, because by now he walked hanging on to the wall and couldn’t balance himself.
“Well, I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided I could handle the record player, change the record, and watch how the steps are done. That’ll give you more time to be with the other kids on the floor,” he said. So he got to change the records and watch.
“ I have many blessings for which I am thankful …”
Like being basketball scorer in high school, managing one of the girls’ teams, working on the school newspaper, and being elected to various student council offices. When he ran for treasurer, he said in his campaign speech, “You have only to take one look at me to be sure I won’t run off with the funds.” He was elected.
He didn’t limit his time to school activities. His family had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when Stephen was eight, so he took an active part in Church programs. He went to Primary, was active in Cub Scouts, and moved on into Scouting. He advanced in the priesthood offices and served the sacrament until one day he tripped. That night he wrote in his journal: “Passing sacrament and tripped, nothing spilled, but maybe I’d better not risk it again. I think it’s too hard on the watchers.” So he switched to reminding the other deacons when it was their turn. As a teacher he helped prepare the sacrament in the little side room and was also secretary of the quorum.
Stephen got up at 5:30 A.M. five days a week for four years to go to seminary. He achieved two years’ perfect attendance and one year with one day absent. The other year he went to a drama festival with the winning play and couldn’t find an early morning seminary, so he missed four days.
“I’d like to thank Heavenly Father for my many blessings …”
While Stephen was making friends and doing new things, the disease was also progressing. His head bent back because his neck muscles couldn’t give him the support he needed. As he would inch his way along the corridors of the school, holding on to the walls, he would have to stop every few feet and rest, then look ahead to see what was in his way.
People made comments. Even some adults would come up and say, “How come you look like that?” or “What’s the matter with you?” Sometimes in a restaurant people would think he was just a bad-mannered kid and tell him to sit up properly or not take up so much room.
Did it bother him?
“No, not really. If they knew it wasn’t intentional, they wouldn’t feel like that,” said Stephen.
His older brother, James, started carrying him over his shoulder. They would make a game of it, and people never knew how serious it really was. Stephen would start home from school, and after half a block James would come along, scoop him up, and run on. Stephen would holler, and often the pair would beat the other kids to the house.
There were times in shopping centers when James would carry Stephen and be told by the security men that that type of thing wasn’t allowed. After awhile Stephen became friends with most of the security men, and they would find carts that he could drape himself over.
“Stephen became friends with people because he took time to notice them. I remember one day at the shopping center he said to me, ‘Hey, Mom, let’s go over there, I want to speak to that guy.’ He went over, and he congratulated the man on his promotion and asked what his new duties entailed. The man explained, and they chatted away. Later, I asked Stephen how he knew the man had had a promotion. ‘If you look at the sleeves of their uniforms, you’ll see they have some gold braid on the cuffs. That guy only had one stripe on last week, and this week he has two, so I figured it must mean a promotion.’”
Stephen’s awareness of people as human beings with triumphs and problems was well known. A fellow student sums up this quality: “Even through junior high you could always go to Steve with your troubles. He was always more interested in other people’s problems than his own.”
Another friend says, “He was always happy and unimportant to himself. He thought it was more important to help other people, which he did every day. He was only important to himself as far as he needed to be to return to Heavenly Father. What a beautiful, fantastic person. He had the attitude, ‘I’m not going to let me get me down.’”
“I’m thankful, Heavenly Father …”
He followed his sister and brother in drama. While they were actors, Stephen became a director, a sound man, and a dabbler in lighting. He did this at high school and with the roadshows.
No one thought of him as a cripple. At home it was understood there were certain things he couldn’t do. As his sister explained to one of her friends, “Stephen can’t run, I can’t draw, and James can’t sing.” Living with Stephen taught the other Farrances compassion, not just for him but for all people.
Stephen sailed through school getting straight A’s until the last couple of years of high school when the toll of just living and moving took a great portion of his energy. He ended with a B average. He was voted Citizen of the Year by the student body and received service awards every year of high school. His last year he won the Soroptimist Youth Citizenship Award and a school bursary. He also ran an hour-long morning radio broadcast at school.
He spoke at church on a regular basis and held various church positions. Ward members loved him and gave him strength, while drawing courage from watching him. He served as secretary in the Aaronic Priesthood MIA and was vice-president of his institute class.
He was a staunch supporter of the missionary program and invited the elders home as often as possible. Stephen was thrilled the day his brother, James, received his mission call. He enjoyed the preparations and being able to travel to Salt Lake City to take James to the Missionary Home there. Stephen firmly believed he would serve a mission too, and he studied diligently to prepare himself for it. His patriarchal blessing stated that he would go on a mission. He didn’t expect to do such a great thing as tracting, but he was sure there was a place for him.
Each day found him a little weaker. His body grew more and more distorted until he was bent almost double and spent his time, awake and asleep, draped over a chair. He didn’t complain; he accepted things the way they were.
Writing and directing the New Westminster Ward roadshow was his last big venture. The Vancouver British Columbia Stake produced the combined roadshows from all the wards. When the judges came back with their verdict, Stephen’s roadshow had won “Best All-Round Entertainment.”
As the applause died down, the stake MC approached the microphone. “Stephen Farrance, writer and assistant director of the winning roadshow, died this morning. We’ve kept this sad news until now we didn’t want to influence the judges. We’d like to congratulate the cast and crew for going on tonight, with special mention to Stephen’s family, who did such a fine job. We dedicate the roadshows to Stephen.”
“How could his family be here tonight?” someone asked, and the reply was, “After living with Stephen, what else could they do?”
“I’d like to bear my testimony and thank Heavenly Father for my many blessings … thank him for the sure knowledge that I will receive a perfect body in the resurrection, for my knowledge that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’m thankful for my membership in this church …”
Stephen had the blessing of a keen mind, a lively sense of humor, and the ability to see problems for what they were. He put all these things together and accomplished a full life, all 18 years of it. But he was not superhuman, neither a paragon of virtue nor a saint, but a warm, loving, normal human being with ups and downs, likes and dislikes.
About the time when many young LDS men are entering the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City at the start of their two-year missions, Stephen Farrance completed his mission here on earth. Did Heavenly Father send him out from the realm of pure love to give us an example to follow? Are we not all, to some extent, crippled in mind, if not in body, and in need of each other’s strength? Was this his mission?
In a letter to Stephen’s brother, James, their former stake president wrote: “Stephen had such a great desire to follow you into the mission field. Now he has received his call. He is eminently prepared to preach the gospel and will yet fulfill a great mission. But on his mission he will not have the heavy burden of his affliction. His spirit now stands straight and tall, and he can walk forth to preach the gospel with power and conviction, even as you are doing. Be of good cheer, Elder. Your brother is about his Father’s work, even as you are.”

Last year I was struggling in school and decided that I needed some additional help beyond tutoring and extra study—I needed to include my Heavenly Father in my study process. The lesson I learned from this decision cannot be found in a textbook, but it’s something I’ll always be grateful I learned.
I started to pray silently at school and vocally at night while doing homework and preparing for exams. I asked Heavenly Father to help me concentrate on my schoolwork and remember what I was learning. By the end of the school year, I’d dramatically increased my grades. But even more important, I’d learned that I should turn to Heavenly Father more when I need help in any area of my life. He does hear our prayers, and especially when we put forth the work, He will help us.

I was baptized on 17 November 1996 in Samara, Russia. Immediately after my baptism, I was filled with the desire to serve a full-time mission and bring souls to Jesus Christ. Eagerly I waited for a year to pass so I could talk to my branch president about a mission.
When the time came, I had the necessary interviews and filled out the missionary recommendation forms. Then I realized I had a problem. Although I had lived in Russia for two years, I was a citizen of Armenia. I had not yet served in the Armenian army, which I was obligated to do.
I began fasting and praying that God would open a way for me to serve a mission. In March 1998 I was drafted into the army and had to return to Armenia. I trusted in God, knowing that He loved me and wanted me to be obedient.
While I was in the Armenian army, I kept the covenants I had made and lived the Word of Wisdom. I often bore my testimony to the other soldiers, and I prayed throughout the day. I fasted and asked Heavenly Father to protect me. And I also asked that I might be able to serve a full-time mission as soon as possible.
After two and a half months in the army, I became ill and was admitted to the hospital. When the doctors examined me, I was surprised to learn I had a heart disease—an illness they believed I had had since childhood. It was now affecting my lungs, liver, and spleen. My body swelled, and I looked as if I had gained considerable weight.
The diagnosis meant I might be released from the army, but the reality of a serious illness scared me. All I could do was trust God to help me.
After I had been in the hospital for a month, an Armenian member of the Church, Brother Ararat, unexpectedly visited me there. He and two missionaries gave me a priesthood blessing.
Three weeks later I was released from the army. Before long I was feeling strong enough to serve a mission.
Now I needed my military release papers. I fasted and prayed. When I rose from my knees, I had my answer. I would rely on the Lord.
Days passed. Whenever I would inquire about my military papers, the officials would say, “Don’t expect them this year. It is not possible.” Still I trusted in the Lord and waited. Finally on 15 December I received word: “Come in and get your papers; they are ready.”
My next problem was getting a passport. The end of the year is a difficult time to secure one, and I was told I could not expect a passport until June. Again I prayed. And again I felt inspired to be patient and rely on the Lord.
And so I trusted, believed, and waited—but not for too long. On 5 January 1999, I received my passport, and on 7 January, my visa. I could begin my missionary service.
All I needed to do now was complete my interviews, finish some paperwork, and receive the required medical examination. Although I felt well, I feared that my heart disease might prevent me from serving. The doctor who examined me knew my medical history and ordered a test of my heart. When he looked at the results, he blurted out in surprise, “You are completely healthy! There is no sign of heart disease. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”
I smiled and said, “I believe in God. I received a blessing from bearers of His priesthood and was healed.”
Soon I was called to serve in the Russia Moscow South Mission. I know God lives. I know He performs miracles now just as He did anciently. And I know He blesses us when we exercise faith in Him.