Gospel Story Finder

One day during my school choir practice, I accidentally embarrassed a boy. He sang a note by himself and went out of tune. People started laughing, and I laughed too. Afterward I felt really bad, so I asked my mom for help. She told me I should tell him I was sorry. I handwrote an apology letter and handed it to him during recess. About a day or so later, when I was walking down the hallway with my friends, the boy stuck his head out of his classroom and yelled, “I forgive you!” I’m glad I had the courage to make the right choice.
Courtney L., age 11, Texas, USA

A young man stood in the dim morning light, snow dusting his shoulders. He held a formidable snowball in his hand and shrank against the wall like a TV detective.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he bawled, “and then I’m coming in after you!”
Before the deadline, girls started spilling into the cold, breathing white columns as they crunched to breakfast with the young men waiting outside for them.
The Laurels and priests from Pocatello, Idaho, had arrived in West Yellowstone, Montana, to find themselves in a Christmas-card city that lay under seven feet of snow. Snowmobiles outnumbered cars on the city streets, and even tall people had to look up to see the tops of drifts. The young people were in town to make a 50-mile, round-trip snowmobile journey to Old Faithful.
They gathered around a line of snow-covered snowmobiles and, like medieval warriors, started helping each other suit up in their thermal armor—goggles, helmets, fur caps, stocking caps, and ear muffs; fur coats, leather coats, and ski-tagged parkas; ski masks, scarves, and knitted mufflers; quilted jump suits, ski pants, levis, and bib overalls; mittens, ski gloves, dress gloves, and snowmobiling gauntlets; hiking boots, snowmobiling boots, moon boots, and waffle stompers; and a flurry of other odds and ends in a rainbow of colors. When they were finally ready to face the potentially sub-zero weather, they looked like the first wave of a Martian invasion. And in a brief moment of silence as they admired the science fiction effect, a female voice wailed, “My earring’s stuck in my muffler!”
It was not the kind of morning they had dreamed about. Instead of a burning blue sky and sparkling drifts there was the gray pall of a snowstorm; and the shiver down their backs wasn’t excitement, it was wet snow. But the group brought its own sunshine, and their happy laughter made it clear that weather could not spoil the trip. When they gathered in the snow for prayer and thanked the Lord for the beautiful day, it was obvious that they really meant it.
Their guide explained safety rules and gave a few instructions on the operation of the machines. Then with the twanging of taut pull-cords, the engines roared to life, and the adventure began.
They skimmed along the road that carries caravans of tourist cars in the summer, but now it was under many feet of packed snow. Flying through the thick of the storm, they all soon became white statues, and from a distance their headlights looked like a string of pale torches winding through the mountains of some other century.
The veil of snow gave the world an aspect not only of timelessness but of placelessness; all sharp edges were blurred, and the landscape had the unreal quality of a Monet painting. Forests of dark trees became horizontal sweeps of vertical shadows, and mountain peaks dim vacancies of an uncertain distance.
The road ran along the Firehole River where swans floated and complacent elk fed along the shore as if all alone in the world. Upstream the river narrowed into a deep gorge, and snowmobilers wound along the side of it, slicing through a universe of clean white powder and feeling like explorers on some other world.
They stopped by a waterfall that plummeted from precipice to precipice and sent white spray up into the white snow. It was more like a vision than a view, and the young men and women were one moment boisterous with the exuberance of it and the next moment silent with an overwhelming sense of awe.
Miles of snow and scenery later, there were buffalo. They materialized out of the great, shaggy-gray shadows, too beautiful to be true. Later there were more of them in a broad, open meadow, and beyond the immense white of the meadow, the dark line of another forest, like a landscape from Dr. Zhivago.
They left the river and turned their runners down narrow, powdery lanes between tall evergreens, past boiling mud pots and geysers steaming in the snow—on to Old Faithful.
There was time then for lunch and some much-needed rest in the visitors’ center at Old Faithful. “Why are we so tired if we’ve been sitting down?” asked one young man as he sprawled on a bench, his snow gear scattered around him on the floor.
The deep snow outside and a little free time were too great a temptation, and soon a mammoth snow battle was in progress. Peace wasn’t fully restored until it was time for Old Faithful to blow. It turned out to be a subdued spectacle, a next-to-invisible shaft of blue-gray steam against the blue-gray sky. But the contrast to a summer eruption only made the wonder of the situation more intense. It was strange to stand in winter where so many thousands of people had stood in the summer, strange because they now stood high above the ground on a platform of snow in the heart of a kingdom that until a few years ago was inaccessible in the wintertime. It was like being able to visit the far side of the moon.
Going home there was time for a stop at some mud pots, some more close-up wildlife study, and a lot more snow. Almost everybody ran out of gas, and some snowmobiles broke down, but there was a mechanic bringing up the rear with fuel and spare parts, so no one had to winter it out.
In a sort of farewell gesture the sun broke through for a while down the home stretch and displayed a silver river, with silver rushes, silver swans, and a snow-silver forest beyond.
By the time the machines were parked, everyone was cold, wet, tired, sore, and limp. Mascara had run down over cheek bones, noses were red, and hair was plastered to foreheads. These young Mormons were beautiful.
What had they learned from the experience? Only what they already knew—that they were friends, in spite of the fact that they came from two arch-rival Pocatello high schools, that God’s works are beautiful, that doing wholesome things with good people is fun—but it was good to learn it all again.

From Dream to Reality: A Young Leader’s Culinary Journey
Meet Yazé Aristophane Guy-Landry, a dynamic young single adult leader in the Grand-Bassam Côte d’Ivoire Stake, whose journey of self-reliance began at the Gathering Place. It was there, in a simple pâtisserie class, that Yazé discovered a passion for baking and a newfound confidence in his talents.
That spark ignited a bold step forward—he enrolled at the École Hôtelière de Grand-Bassam, where he is now thriving in his culinary studies. As he builds his skills, Yazé is also gaining valuable experience by working at the hotel. His goal is clear: to eventually launch his own restaurant.
Reflecting on this journey, he shared, “This experience is changing the way I viewed life some time ago. I am convinced that if I work well, with God’s help, I will be financially good and self-sufficient.”
Yazé credits the Gathering Place not just for his career direction but also for deep personal and spiritual growth. “I can truly attest to the authenticity of this program called Gathering Place,” he said. “I believe it is a gift from heaven and carried out by our leaders to bring together the youth of the Church and their friends in an enchanted place, allowing them to learn more, whether it be skills training or the importance of human values, helping us to keep our covenants and stay on the right path.”
For Yazé, the Gathering Place is more than a classroom—it’s a community. “I had the opportunity to get to know several members and friends. I even believe that my marriage will come from the Gathering Place. I invite all my young single adult friends to give this program the utmost importance.”
Yazé’s story is a powerful example of how the Gathering Place is transforming lives, helping young adults turn hope into action and dreams into achievement.

Mike is truly a special person, but it took me 18 years to realize it. Mike is my older brother, and for years we struggled to get along. We are very different. Mike, the family athlete, played basketball while I practiced the piano. I excelled in English and literature. Mike’s forte is science. But instead of our differences forming a complementary relationship between us, we let them turn into feelings of anger and contention.
Consequently, those negative feelings began to concern our parents. “Jeff, we are an eternal family. If you and Mike can’t get along now, you’re not going to be happy with him in the eternities,” my father said one day. “Of all the relationships in your life, this is one of the most important. You must put forth all your effort to build it up. It will take a lot of work; everything worthwhile does.”
That night I thought a lot about what Dad had said, and I knew he was right. I promised myself that I would try my best to build a better relationship with my brother.
With the hopes of building a friendship between Mike and me, our parents planned a long family vacation in Alaska where we could spend a lot of time together fishing, hiking, and camping. Mom and Dad’s plan caught a snag, though. Both Mike and I wanted to stay home to work and earn money for college. Disappointed but supportive of our decision, our family left us in Houston to work for the two months they would be in Alaska.
After they left, we both searched for good jobs with little success until Mike finally found one. The catch was he needed me too. A real estate manager had several houses that needed exterior paint jobs, and he was looking for a couple of guys to paint. At the time, the thought of working several hours every day with Mike was not appealing. But the money was too good to refuse.
On our first day of painting the change in us began. At 5:30 A.M., Mike yelled into my room, “Come on, get up! It’s only going to get hotter!” With a groan, I got dressed. We both knew once the sun was up, the temperature would rise quickly, making outside work even more miserable. Mike loaded the van with our equipment, while I made juice and packed fruit that we hoped would give us periodic reprieves from the beating sun.
As we began to paint, we realized our painting strategies were quite different. While I spent a lot of time on each area, moving on only when the area was well-coated and no spots showed, Mike would paint an entire wall quickly and messily and then return for a second coat to cover any missed spots. The different strategies were equally efficient and caused no problems until we both had to work in the same area. We then compromised. Mike began with his first coat and I followed behind, catching every spot and finishing details. We finished much faster than expected.
Another potential conflict arose in choosing a radio station to listen to. While Mike preferred the “light” station, I complained it was more monotonous than the painting. I didn’t want to argue, though, so I was preparing to give him the choice. But it was Mike who acquiesced. During the course of that day, Mike listened to more alternative rock than ever before. I even caught him singing along several times.
Though we painted through some periods without talking, we also maintained long periods of conversation, perhaps longer than we had ever talked before. Conversation made the job go faster, and as we talked it became clear that we had some things in common. In that one afternoon, we talked about school, the Church, music, and art. I told about a bizarre dream I’d had. He told me about his most embarrassing date. We found ourselves laughing as we realized we had repainted an entire wall in the midst of our conversation.
It was beginning to get dark when we finally finished the house. We cleaned our equipment, loaded the van, and then surveyed the house with satisfaction. As I drove home, I thought about something I’d learned in a physics class. Physicists define work in terms of force (effort) and displacement (movement). Thus, work becomes a term of progress, dependent on effort and movement. I thought about our first day of painting that same way. It had required a lot of effort, and we could see our progress on the house. But there was other work we had done that day too. Our relationship had become stronger. It wasn’t without effort, though. The words of my father echoed in my mind: “It will take work; everything worthwhile does.”
Later, I talked on the phone to my parents about the first day of painting. I told them despite the Texas heat, we were able to finish the first house. “Working with Mike wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was kind of fun,” I told my mom. “I’m excited to start the next house.”
Indeed, I couldn’t wait to continue what would turn out to be my real summer work—appreciating my brother.

Charlotte pushed her fingers into her ears. Singing time was usually her favorite part of Primary. But today she didn’t want to hear the songs they were singing. She had asked if she could sit in the hall instead.
She stared at the green carpet, trying not to cry. It didn’t work.
Someone walked up beside her. Charlotte quickly wiped away her tears and looked up.
It was Sister Henry. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Charlotte swallowed. “Those songs are about happy families and being together forever,” she said quietly.
“Oh. I see.” Sister Henry sat down beside Charlotte.
A few months ago, Charlotte’s parents had called a family meeting. Dad explained that he was moving.
“So it’s kind of like you’re getting a divorce?” Charlotte had asked.
“Not kind of,” Mom said. “We both love you, but yes, we are getting divorced.”
Charlotte remembered how her skin felt cold and hot at the same time. Then all of her feelings erupted! Fear, anger, confusion, and deep sadness—the kind that made you feel sick.
She still felt that way sometimes. Like when Mom and Dad sat on opposite sides of the pool at her swim meets. Or when her little brother cried for Mom when they stayed at Dad’s house.
Or when they were singing about families in Primary.
“When my parents got divorced, it felt like someone was punching me in the stomach,” Sister Henry said. “Over and over again.”
Charlotte was surprised. “Your parents are divorced too?”
Sister Henry nodded. “They got divorced when I was about your age.”
Charlotte looked at her hands. “Sometimes when we sing ‘Families Can Be Together Forever,’ I think, ‘Except for mine.’” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I get so mad. And that’s bad, isn’t it?”
Sister Henry shook her head. “No. I used to feel sick whenever I saw kids with both of their parents together.”
“Yeah!” Charlotte said. “It’s like they’re in a happy family club, and I’m not. Everything is different now.”
“It’s normal to feel mad, sad, or scared now—however you feel,” Sister Henry said. “Divorce is hard. But I promise that you will feel better. Your family is still your family, even if it looks different now. It helped me a lot to remember that my parents still loved me, and would for all eternity.”
Charlotte smiled. She liked Sister Henry.
Sister Henry leaned closer to Charlotte. “But you know what helped me the most?” she whispered.
“What?” Charlotte whispered back.
“I learned that I still have a perfect, happy family,” Sister Henry said. “And so do you. We all do, no matter what our earthly family is like right now.”
Charlotte crinkled her nose. “How?”
“Well, our earthly families aren’t perfect, but our heavenly family is. So no matter what happens, we have heavenly parents who love us and a wonderful heavenly home waiting for us.”
When Charlotte thought about that, she felt a little hopeful. She imagined what it would be like one day when she saw her heavenly parents again.
“Maybe when we’re singing about families, I can think about my heavenly family,” Charlotte said. Sister Henry nodded.
Charlotte had just one more question. “Does it look like I’ve been crying?”
“Not a bit,” Sister Henry said.
Charlotte stood up. “Then I think I’m ready to sing.”

One October day our daughter Júlia, who is often restless during family home evening, said, “We have never had a family home evening in the dark. Can we, please?” We wondered how and what we could teach her in the dark.
We turned off the lights, and complete darkness enveloped us. Then my husband opened his cell phone and began teaching about the Light of Christ. He demonstrated how the Light of Christ can bring us out of the darkness and lead us as a family back to Him. The light from the phone was not very bright, but it was enough to enable us to see.
As the phone periodically turned off the light automatically, we were able to show our daughter what our lives would be like without the Savior, Jesus Christ. The Spirit was very strong, and our daughter became completely reverent. Even now she remembers our favorite family home evening and the message that was taught.
Valquíria Lima dos Santos, Brazil

I started attending a new school when I was 14. I was overwhelmed at the idea of having to start over. I wasn’t good at making friends, and I wasn’t good with change. Every day after school at my new school, I would cry on my dad’s shoulder. I was so sad and missed my old friends. All I wanted was to go back to my old school.
That was also when I began taking seminary. Seminary got me through each day. I began to realize it was because I felt the Spirit there. I started praying more often, listening in Church meetings more intently, and having a meaningful fast each month. Over the next few months, I became truly happy again.
I love the gospel of Jesus Christ. Thanks to the gospel, I found true happiness during the hardest trial of my life, and I learned about the pure love of God.

There was a tiny glow of growing yellow light just above the mountains to the east as I crept across our front lawn and headed for Buddy’s place next door.
“Well, good morning, Aaron,” Buddy greeted me in a soft, surprised voice. “I would have bet my best fishing pole that you’d never get that mattress unstuck from your back at this time of day.”
“And you would have lost that fishing pole,” I teased back.
Buddy chuckled. “It’s rare for a ten-year-old boy to get himself out of bed at four o’clock just to help his neighbor irrigate his yard.”
Buddy was old enough to be my grandpa. I used to call him Mr. Chambers or Brother Chambers until he told me that his name was just plain old Buddy. Mister, he said, made him sound too old, and Brother made him sound like a preacher.
I’d been helping him with his yard, in his shop, or around his house for as long as I could remember. When I helped him work on his truck or car, he explained how everything worked and why he had to change the oil or the spark plugs or pour in antifreeze. When we planted his garden, he asked me where we should put the carrots and the tomatoes and the other vegetables like I was the expert and had to be the one to decide. He usually planted them right where I suggested.
When I arrived that morning, the irrigation water was gurgling into Buddy’s backyard because he had already pulled up the headgate that let the water in from behind his backyard fence.
For the next hour, Buddy and I sloshed around in the cool brown water as we irrigated the garden, the fruit trees, the lawn, and the flowers.
“We have to be careful that we don’t let in too much water back here,” he told me, “or it will overflow the patio and run into the basement. It happened once, and it took Marva and me a week to pump all the water out and get things cleaned up. We had to replace the carpet and almost everything else downstairs. Marva hasn’t let me forget that boo-boo. That’s why I needed you out here today to keep me on my toes. Another accident like that, and I’ll be sleeping in the shed for the next two years.”
When we finished, he said, “I’m hungry. What do you say we drive down to Burt’s cafe?”
I had eggs and bacon alongside a stack of pancakes floating in blueberry syrup. Soon I was so stuffed that I could hardly move. “Buddy,” I asked, “would you come to Primary with me on Sunday?”
“I’m afraid I’m too old for Primary. They ran me out of Primary years ago. I don’t think they’d let me back now.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t mean that, and you know it. I’m going to give a talk this Sunday. I thought you’d like to hear me give it.”
“I’d love to hear you preach, Aaron. I’ll tell you what, you get your talk all polished and practiced, then come over and give it to Marva and me.”
“But I want you to hear me give it in Primary.”
Buddy wagged a finger at me. “You’re a sneaky guy, but I know your tricks. You’re just trying to get me to go to church. I already told you that it’s been so long since I went to church that the whole building would fall down if I walk through the door.”
“That’s not true,” I came back. “You were there when I got baptized, and it’s still standing.”
Buddy smiled. “That was a special occasion. Special occasions don’t count.”
“Sundays are special occasions,” I pestered. “Marva would love to have you there. She hates always going to church alone. Why did you stop going to church, anyway?”
Buddy set his fork down. “Oh, somebody hurt my feelings. It doesn’t seem like a big thing now, but it seemed pretty important back then. I decided I’d stop going, and I just got out of the habit. Now I’m in the habit of staying home, and it’s a tough habit to break. Besides, I’m too old to go back. And nobody cares, anyway.”
“That’s not true. I care. So does Marva.”
“Aaron, it would take a miracle to get me back inside the church.”
“What kind of miracle?”
“Oh, a little one would do fine, but I don’t think anybody’s passing out miracles these days. But when you get your talk ready, you come over and practice on Marva and me.”
“Mom, do you believe in miracles?” I asked my mother later that morning as I helped her clean the family room.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“What do you think a miracle is?”
Mom thought for a moment. “I suppose a miracle is something that doesn’t normally happen, and when it does happen, it’s because the Lord helps it happen that way. For example, when you had an earache in the middle of the night last year and there was no way to get you to the doctor, Dad gave you a priesthood blessing. Right away the pain stopped, and you went to sleep. That wasn’t a huge miracle, but it was a miracle.”
“Do you think it would be all right for us to pray for a miracle for Buddy? He says he won’t go to church unless he has a miracle.”
“Well, Aaron, the scriptures tell us that we aren’t to ask for signs. A miracle might be considered a sign. We could pray that Buddy would decide to go to church, but I’m not sure asking for a miracle for him would be the right thing to do.”
I worked on my Primary talk. I decided to talk about how the Lord answers prayers. I included the story about my earache. When I finally had the talk as good as I could get it, I went over to Buddy’s house and practiced on him and Marva.
“It’s a mighty fine speech, Aaron,” Buddy said.
“So will you come to Primary and listen to me give it there?” I coaxed.
Buddy laughed. “You don’t ever stop pestering me, do you? Besides, Marva and I are going to be out of town for three or four days, including Sunday. In fact, I need you to keep an eye on things while we’re gone. Will you water the flowers and pick the green beans and cucumbers?”
I was disappointed, but I didn’t stop praying for Buddy.
Monday morning I watered Buddy’s flowers. I picked the green beans and cucumbers. I even pulled the weeds. Then I checked all around the yard to make sure everything was all right before going home.
On Monday afternoon as I was reading a mystery book, I got to wondering about Buddy’s place again. I went back to my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of Buddy’s place. I’d done more than he’d asked me to do, but something kept pestering my mind.
Finally I set my book down and muttered to myself, “I’ll go back and check again.” I wandered around Buddy’s front yard, making sure all the flowers had received water. I looked through the front window. Everything was all right in there. The rose bushes on the side of the house were all fine.
I was starting to feel kind of silly. Then I went through the gate. The backyard was a huge pond, and the water was just a few inches from running into Buddy’s basement! Someone had taken the headgate from the irrigation ditch when it was empty. But now it was full, and the water was gushing into Buddy’s yard.
Without stopping to pull off my shoes and socks, I sloshed over to the ditch and pushed the headgate into place. The water stopped rushing into Buddy’s yard. It had started trickling into the window wells, but it didn’t look like it would flood the basement.
When Buddy and Sister Chambers came home, one glance at his backyard told him what had happened. “Well, Aaron,” he said, “I owe you a great big thanks. As soon as I walked back there, I remembered taking that headgate out to clean the ditch. I forgot to put it back. I almost thought I’d had a miracle.” He grinned. “But it wasn’t a miracle at all—you look out for me all the time. I’m sure glad that I’d asked you to keep an eye on things.”
“But, Buddy,” I said seriously, “I think it really was a miracle. I’d already checked on your place once today, and everything was fine. I’d done everything you’d asked me to do. I had no reason to go back and check on anything. But this afternoon something in my brain kept insisting that I needed to check again. That’s why I went back.
“The other day you said that nobody cared about what you do. That’s not true. The Lord was watching out for you. He was the one who sent me over here to check up. I don’t know everything about miracles, but if you ask me, that’s a miracle. It might be just a little one, but it’s still a miracle.” I hesitated. “Maybe you’ve had more miracles than you know about. Maybe you just haven’t recognized what they were.”
The next morning I went over to help Buddy clean up his backyard. We didn’t say very much at first, but when we took a short rest, he said, “I’ve been doing some serious thinking since last night. You were right. Even though I’ve stayed away from church so long, the Lord hasn’t forgotten me. He still knows where I live. I didn’t think He did.
“And He doesn’t even mind sending a miracle or two my way, even when I don’t deserve them. I guess I’m going to have to break an old habit—staying home Sundays.” He took a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve walked through those church doors, but if you’ll walk beside me and take me by the hand, I’m going to see if I can do it without the whole building falling down.”
I smiled. “You missed my Primary talk,” I teased him, “but that’s OK, because more than anything, I want you to come back to church. For good. Next Sunday will be best of all, because I’ll know that you’re not there for a special occasion. You’ll be there because you’re finally changing a bad habit for a good one.”

Several decades ago an acquaintance of mine left a small southern Utah town to travel east. He had never traveled much beyond his little hometown and certainly had never ridden a train. But his older sister and brother-in-law needed him under some special circumstances and his parents agreed to free him from the farmwork in order to go. They drove him to Salt Lake City and put him onto the train—new Levi’s, not-so-new boots, very frightened, and 18 years old.

There was one major problem and it terrified him. He had to change trains in Chicago. Furthermore, it involved an overnight layover, and that was a fate worse than death. His sister had written, carefully outlining when the incoming train would arrive and how and where and when he was to catch the outgoing line, but he was terrified.

And then his humble, plain, sun-scarred father did something no one in this room should ever forget. He said, “Son, wherever you go in this church, there will always be somebody to stand by you. That’s part of what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.” And then he stuffed into the pocket of his calico shirt the name of a bishop he had taken the time to identify from sources at Church headquarters. If the boy had troubles, or became discouraged and afraid, he was to call the bishop and ask for help.

Well, the train ride progressed rather uneventfully until it pulled into Chicago. And even then the young man did pretty well at collecting his luggage and making it to the nearby hotel room that had been prearranged by his brother-in-law. But then the clock began to tick and night began to fall and faith began to fail. Could he find his way back to the station? Could he find the right track and train? What if it were late? What if he were late? What if he lost his ticket? What if his sister had made a mistake and he ended up in New York? What if? What if? What if?

Without those well-worn boots ever hitting the floor, that big, raw-boned boy flew across the room, nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall, and fighting back tears and troubles, called the bishop. Alas, the bishop was not home but, aha, the bishop’s wife was. She spoke long enough to reassure him that absolutely nothing could go wrong that night. He was, after all, safe in the room, and what he needed more than anything else was a night’s rest. Then she said, “If tomorrow morning you are still concerned, follow these directions, and you can be with our family and other ward members until train time. We will make sure you get safely on your way.” She then carefully spelled out the directions, had him repeat them back, and suggested a time for him to come.

With slightly more peace in his heart, he knelt by his bed as he had every night of his 18 years and then waited for morning to come. Somewhere in the night, the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the 1930s subsided into peaceful sleep.

At the appointed hour the next morning, he set out. A long walk, then catch a bus. Then transfer to another. Watch for the stop. Walk a block, change sides of the street, and then one last bus. Count the streets carefully. Two more to go. One more to go. I’m here. Let me out of this bus. It worked, just like she said.

Then his world crumbled, crumbled before his very eyes. He stepped out of the bus onto the longest stretch of shrubbery and grass he had ever seen in his life. She had said something about a park, but he thought a park was a dusty acre in southern Utah with a netless tennis court in one corner. Here he stood looking in vain at the vast expanse of Lincoln Park with not a single friendly face in sight.

There was no sign of a bishop or ward or a meetinghouse. And the bus was gone. It struck him that he had no idea where he was or what combination of connections with who knows what number of buses would be necessary to get him back to the station. Suddenly he felt more alone and overwhelmed than at any moment in his life. As the tears welled up in his eyes, he despised himself for feeling so afraid—but he was and the tears would not stop. He stepped off the sidewalk away from the bus stop into the edge of the park. He needed some privacy for his tears, as only an 18-year-old from southern Utah could fully appreciate. But as he stepped away from the noise, fighting to control his emotions, he thought he heard something hauntingly familiar in the distance. He moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. First he walked, and then he walked quickly. The sound was stronger and firmer and certainly it was familiar. Then he started to smile, a smile which erupted into an audible laugh, and then he started to run. He wasn’t sure that was the most dignified thing for a newcomer to Chicago to do, but this was no time for discretion. He ran and he ran fast. He ran as fast as those cowboy boots would carry him—over shrubs, through trees, around the edge of a pool.

Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
The words were crystal clear, and he was weeping newer, different tears. For there over a little rise, huddled around a few picnic tables and bundles of food, were the bishop and his wife and their children and most of the families of that little ward. The date: July 24, 1934. The sound: a slightly off-key, a cappella rendition of lines that even a boy from southern Utah could recognize.

Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we’ll have this tale to tell—
All is well! all is well!
(Hymns, no. 13)

It was pioneer day. The gathering to which he had been invited was a 24th of July celebration. Knowing that it was about time for the boy to arrive, the ward had thought it a simple matter to sing a verse or two of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to let him know their location.

When I was very young, I loved to play ball, any kind of ball. As I grew older, it became obvious that the Lord had given me a special talent in athletics, and of all the sports in which I participated, I was most attracted to basketball. I came from a family of meager financial means, so when I was old enough to throw a ball through a hoop, my folks couldn’t afford the hoop or the ball. I found an old tin band from a wooden barrel and nailed it on the garage. Then I got some rags and tied them together until I had a good-sized rag ball. Every night after school I would go outside and shoot that rag ball through the hoop. Many times, I would have to climb up on the garage to straighten the band because it would bend from the rag ball hitting it so often. I could hardly wait to get home in the evenings so I could start shooting my rag ball through the hoop.
It was during my 13th year when Dad took me aside one day and said, “Bobby, how would you like to have a real basketball hoop?” He had made one out of a rod of iron, had made a backboard, and had attached the hoop to it. I could hardly believe my eyes! Dad and I mounted it on the back of the garage. He then gave me my first rubber basketball. Boy, was I excited! Night after night, as soon as I got home from school, I was out in back shooting my ball. I loved to shoot long shots and practiced them by the hour.
In my mind I would always picture myself as one of the great ball players of the day. If I were having that experience at this time, I would probably be Magic Johnson or Larry Bird. I always pretended I was in the national basketball finals with just a few seconds left. I had the ball and the score was tied. I would come down along the fence line and let go with a long shot, and as it went through the hoop, I would sense the feeling of being a hero. I won more national titles than you can ever imagine. I could see it in my mind’s eye. I thought about it a lot. I knew I could do it. I practiced and practiced. I also dreamed of one day playing in Madison Square Garden. It was the most famous basketball arena in the world at that time. There was no other place like it.
When I graduated from high school, I accepted a basketball scholarship to Utah State University in Logan. During my junior year, we were invited to Madison Square Garden to play in the first holiday festival tournament ever held there. My dream had come true! I had seen it! I had worked hard for it. Along with Utah State and other teams from the United States, the two top teams in the nation had been invited to the tournament. Our team played the number two-rated team the first night, and it was really close. The game went down to the wire, but we won. I was high-point man and played one of my best games ever. The next night Utah State played another great team, and again it was a close game. We won, and once more I was high-point man.
The Aggies from Logan were now in the finals against Manhattan University (New York City), the number one team in the nation. It was a tough and close game. We were never separated by more than four points. As we approached the final two minutes of the game, Utah State was leading by four points. We had the ball and had planned to stall it out, but we lost it. One of the Manhattan players stole a pass and went down and scored. Now Utah State had only a two-point lead with about a minute and a half to go. We came down the floor again and worked around the key until an open shot came. One of our players drove in and missed it. Manhattan got the ball again and scored. Now the score was tied with a minute or less to go. We had the ball, came down the court, and missed our shot. The rebound went to Manhattan, and now they had the ball with about 35 seconds to go. We didn’t dare foul them. What a terrible position to be in! At times like that, you wonder why you ever took up the sport. Manhattan worked the ball around until there were about 10 seconds left, and then the player who had been hitting all night faked out in front, drove to the bucket, and laid it up. I can still see that ball as it rolled around the rim but finally fell off. One of our players pulled down the rebound and threw it to me. I came down the side of the court and let the ball fly from about 30 feet out. It split the net! The final buzzer rang, and we had won the national holiday festival tournament! As that buzzer went off, I thought to myself, “I’ve done this before.” I had. In my mind’s eye and in the backyard, I had done it hundreds and hundreds of times. I had practiced and practiced. I had worked for it. Because of my faith and work, the Lord blessed me.

When I held an online interview with Darlyn and she turned on her camera, she gave me the biggest smile. It was morning in Singapore, and she had gotten up early to meet with me before getting her three kids to school and herself to work.
Darlyn had always wanted to get a master’s degree, but at 36, she was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. This upset her plans for further education and her plans for life.
As I listened to her story, I thought that if anyone had a right to be upset with difficult changes, it was Darlyn. But she pointed out the blessings and mercies she’d received and the people who had served her. Darlyn accepted the change of plans with grace. Instead of focusing on what she had lost, she focused on the experiences she had gained. Just as President Russell M. Nelson taught, “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”1
Ultimately, Darlyn joined BYU–Pathway Worldwide because she wanted to keep her mind healthy. She told me she didn’t hate having cancer—she was grateful it led her to BYU–Pathway and to deepen her relationship with Jesus Christ.
I left that conversation wanting to change my perspective of change. Because Darlyn had put aside resentment and anger about her circumstances, she was able to take control of her life. Instead of challenges and change deterring her progress, they propelled her forward.

My senior year of high school began with the tardy bell ringing, echoing through the empty hallway. Agghh! Late for the first day! I slammed my locker door shut and ran down the hall to my first class. Why did school have to start today? I had slept in this morning and missed the bus. Mom had already left to take my little sister to preschool, so I hopped on my mountain bike and covered the two miles to school in record time.
School should start next week! Why couldn’t today just be a repeat of yesterday?
“Hey, Andrew, Mr. Lazy Bones, wake up! It’s gonna get hot soon and we gotta do Pet Piranha before the sun hits it!”
My best friend Josh made a habit of charging into my room like that. I shouldn’t have been the least bit surprised this morning. With school starting tomorrow, this would be our last chance to go rock climbing with no schedules or homework to worry about.
“Dude, get up!” Josh hopped onto my bed and started jumping until I could no longer ignore him.
“Okay, okay, I’m up already!” I whined in my best morning voice. “Where’s my stuff?”
“I thought I told you to lay it all out last night, since I knew you’d sleep in again.” Josh tried to sound impatient, but I could hear the excitement in his voice.
I got dressed. As I picked up my harness, climbing shoes, and chalk bag, my Book of Mormon fell to the floor. I had set it on top of my gear yesterday afternoon to remind myself to read before going to bed, but the time had grown late and I was sleepy. What did it matter if I missed reading the scriptures for one more day?
Reading the scriptures every day was a goal I had agreed to in seminary before school let out for the summer. Our teacher had said something about how reading the scriptures would protect us. It had motivated me enough to make the goal, but I had long since forgotten why it seemed so important.
As I picked up the book, I also thought about my goal to say my prayers every morning and night, but that could wait too. After all, I could pray anytime. I tossed the book on my unmade bed and headed out the door with Josh.
Mr. Fenton had just started class as I walked through the door to algebra III. I avoided his gaze as I made my way to the back of the class.
Uh, oh. Amy sat there in the back, smiling at me and clearing her notebook off a desk next to her. Amy was all right as a person, but the way she looked at me sometimes made me feel uncomfortable. The brownies she sometimes cooked for me tasted great, but that didn’t mean I wanted her to give them to me.
After Mr. F. had begun again, Amy looked over and smiled. “You missed the bus,” she whispered, as if I didn’t already know. I nodded my head and looked back up to find Mr. Fenton staring straight at me.
“Do you think you two could get reacquainted after class, Andrew?”
I thought of defending myself, of telling him that I hadn’t said anything. “Yeah, sorry,” was all I said. I didn’t look at Amy again, even though I sensed her trying to get my attention. I tried to pay attention for a while as Mr. Fenton droned on about our first assignment but soon found my thoughts drifting back to yesterday’s adventure.
Outside my house, I set my gear in the back of Josh’s truck. We backed out of the driveway and drove up the canyon to our destination. The guidebook told us that Pet Piranha was rated 5.11a***, right at the edge of my climbing comfort zone. The three stars next to the rating, however, promised good holds and a fun, doable climb.
We pulled off the highway at the bridge and began the steep hike to the cliffs. Once there, we studied the drawing in the guidebook, looking for Pet Piranha while walking along the cliff base.
“This must be it,” said Josh. “See, this looks like the tower to the left, and there’s Chips Ahoy that joins it halfway up.” He dropped the guidebook and walked over to touch the cliff. I pulled the tarp and rope from his pack and looked up to find Josh already four feet off the ground. He pulled himself close to the rock and swung his right hand high above his head to the next hold.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Aren’t ya gonna wait for the rope?”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered. He lowered himself a bit and jumped to the ground. “But someday, I’m gonna free solo this route.”
Josh stared up the route as he spoke. He wasn’t afraid of anything, and I didn’t doubt that he meant it. But free solo? That meant no rope, no protection at all, nothing to keep him from falling all the way to the deck if he slipped even once. And it happened to the best of them. We had read magazine articles about guys who free soloed and talked about how great it was, but now at least two of them were dead.
“Don’t be crazy, Josh. What if you die? Who would I climb with then?”
“But think of the rush!”
“Listen, if you slipped from even halfway up this route, you’d deck so hard you’d crush at least three dozen bones and blow your chance to ever climb again. How would you like to spend the rest of your life as a paraplegic?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Anyway, I don’t think I’d really have done it.” He turned away from the cliff and smiled cheerfully. I finished doing up my harness and waited for him to tie in.
My next class was seminary, or released time, as they called it officially. I had signed up with Josh, and we were both in Brother Stowers’s class. I stopped by my locker, then headed outside toward the seminary building. The touch of the morning breeze against my face reminded me of yesterday’s breeze in the canyon.
“You gonna go first?” Josh asked, smiling.
“I thought you were going first,” I answered.
“Of course you did. I always go first. That’s why you should go first today. This is the last day of summer. Ya gotta do something memorable!”
The thought of leading this climb frightened me a little, but why not? If I couldn’t finish, Josh could always come up and do it.
“All right, I will then.” I pulled on my tight climbing shoes and tied myself in with a figure-eight knot. As each second passed, the knot of fear inside my stomach cinched tighter.
“Climbing,” I said, trying to sound as casual as Josh always did.
“Climb on,” he answered in a sing-song voice.
I chalked my hands and stepped up to the cliff. The first holds weren’t too bad. They were small and a bit polished, but I moved up to the first bolt eight feet off the ground and clipped in. I breathed more easily once I had the rope clipped through the quickdraw. Now there was something to catch me if I fell.
I can do this! I moved up toward the second bolt. The moves became technical and balancy. My feet were placed uncomfortably off to one side as I tried to lay back on vertical handholds. I made it to the next bolt, but the thought of letting go with either hand to clip frightened me.
“I don’t know if I can clip this!” I yelled down to Josh.
“So skip it,” he yelled back. “You can clip the next one.”
Yeah, right! Falling without protection nearby would result in a long fall, and my chances of getting hurt would increase dramatically. My stomach tightened again and adrenaline seeped quietly into my veins. I knew I couldn’t hang on forever. I slowly let go with one hand and reached down to the gear loops on my harness, unclipped a quickdraw, and clipped into the bolt. I reached down for the rope and clipped it into the draw. A cool wave of relief swept over me as the gate snapped shut around the rope.
“Lookin’ good, Andrew!” Josh yelled from below.
My arms were getting tired, and I couldn’t see my next move. “I don’t think this thing is only an .11a!” I shouted down. Maybe it got easier higher up, but the fear was already making me use up my strength much faster than I needed to.
“I’m getting awfully pumped! I’m not sure I can finish this!” It was times like this that I began to wonder why I climb in the first place. “Hold me for a minute while I rest then.”
“Gotcha. Go whenever you’re ready.”
Josh took up the slack in the rope, and I sat in my harness and let the rope hold me up. I was glad for the bolt right there, something that would hold me up, keep me from falling, and let me rest. The bolts also marked the route, telling me where I could expect to find holds that would take me to the top.
I shook out my tired forearms and looked down to where the highway and river twisted along the canyon floor. A few swallows floated gracefully on the updrafts. For a moment, I forgot my fear of the climb. Then I looked back at the gray and black limestone in front of me. I touched the narrow edges and ran my fingers along thin cracks and seams. It was beautiful, and I remembered why I came here—the thrill of the climb, the beauty of the natural world, the sense of accomplishment after a challenging ascent, and just spending time with my best friend.
I walked into seminary and found my name on a desk at the back. I sat down as Brother Stowers walked into the room. He told us a little about himself and asked each of us to give a short introduction as well.
Next to me on the back row sat a girl I had never seen before. She must have been new in town, and I wouldn’t mind being one of the first to get to know her. The new girl said her name was Amber, and she had just moved here from Wyoming. Josh noticed my interest and bobbed his eyebrows at me. I gave him a “Give me a break!” look, even though it was futile to deny that I was interested.
Having learned Amber’s name and given my own short introduction, I was free to let my mind wander again.
I took a deep breath and called, “Climbing.”
Josh answered with a cheery “Climb on,” and I went back to work.
I had scouted out a few potential moves and tried them out. They worked all right, but they were small and I had to move quickly to avoid burning out again and coming off the wall. I climbed to the third bolt and clipped again. Only three more bolts to the top. By now I was more than 30 feet above the deck. “I sure wish these bolts were closer together.”
With my middle finger in a shallow pocket and my index finger stacked on top of it, I smeared my feet on a bulge and looked up for the next handhold. “Ya know, this doesn’t feel anything like an .11a,” I shouted down. “Seems more like an .11d!”
I reached up and pinched a tiny crystal, then shifted a foot to an eighth-of-an-inch-wide ledge. It had a sharp edge and felt secure, and I breathed a little easier as I shifted most of my weight back to my feet. “I bet the guidebook got it wrong,” I yelled while moving my right hand to a large rock flake above my head. “I bet it was a typo and this is really a .12a or maybe …”
As I pulled down against the flake, it broke loose and sent me hurtling backward into empty space. “Falling!” I shouted instinctively.
Just for an instant, the wind whistled past my ears; then the slack ran out and the rope caught me with a gentle jerk on my harness. I held my feet out in front of me, and they landed softly against the cliff, almost 15 feet below where I had fallen.
“Yahoo!” Josh shouted. “What a screamer! You got some serious air on that one. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answered as I watched the loose rock tumble down the mountainside below. That would explain the wrong rating. The route has probably changed as other holds have broken off. That would make it a completely different climb than it used to be. The shock of the fall quickly turned to excitement and elation with the adrenaline still pumping hot through my veins and brain.
“You owe me your life!” Josh said in his most dramatic tone of voice. It was his standard line every time he caught a fall. I laughed and he asked, “Wanna try again?”
“Nah, I’m gonna let you finish. I’ve had enough for one day.”
After I lowered down, Josh tied in and climbed quickly up to where I had fallen. I noticed him carefully testing each hold before trusting it with his entire weight. He agreed that the route was more difficult than an .11a, but he enjoyed it just the same. We spent the rest of the afternoon eating granola bars and drinking apple juice in the shade, then wading through the river and finally swimming once a water fight had broken out between us.
My thoughts returned to class when Amber started reading a scripture.
“… with a promise immutable and unchangeable, that inasmuch as those whom I commanded were faithful they should be blessed with a multiplicity of blessings.”
Boy, wouldn’t it be nice if we could count on everything being that dependable. Like climbing routes and guidebooks. Like life even. I thought of raising my hand to share the analogy, but I hadn’t been listening and wasn’t sure if it would fit into the discussion.
“That’s one reason why we call Christ ‘the Rock’,” Brother Stowers said. “Because he never changes, we can trust him to bless us when we keep his commandments just as he promised people in the early church and throughout history.”
Now I was intrigued. The Rock, huh? This analogy is getting better. Only the true Rock can be depended on like that. Everything else in this world can eventually break off, and that could put a person in a great deal of danger or pain if he had trusted it too much. I looked at Josh and he smiled. He must have thought the same thing. Suddenly I found my hand raised above my head.
“Yes, Andrew?” Brother Stowers called on me after consulting his seating chart.
“So we should clip into the rock frequently, I guess,” I blurted out.
“Clip?” Brother Stowers asked, a bit confused.
I should have backed up and explained things a little. Now no one would know what I was talking about. I was remembering the cliff breaking apart yesterday. I was thinking about how each clip on yesterday’s climb gave me a great sense of security and how I wished they were closer together. I was thinking about my broken resolves to read the scriptures and pray every day and how foolish it seemed to put them off now that I could see it all in perspective.
Then Josh jumped into the discussion. “Yeah,” he said, “attach ourselves, anchor ourselves to Him.”
“Ah, yes,” Brother Stowers said. “That’s a good point. And how can we do that.”
“Pray,” one student volunteered, “every morning and night.”
“And study the scriptures often,” added Amber.
“Yes,” agreed Brother Stowers, “and if we anchor ourselves that way to the Rock, then … Well, I think Paul said it best in his letter to the Romans. Andrew, would you please read the last two verses of chapter eight?”
“Sure,” I answered. I flipped open my New Testament and began reading, “For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
I suddenly felt the strength of the Spirit in the room that everyone else had probably felt throughout the entire lesson. It burned inside me, confirming to me that the words I had read were true, that Heavenly Father and Christ love us more powerfully than we can know, and that they are always there for our security and well-being in this unpredictable world. It made me feel strong and confident.
I thought again of my broken resolutions. This time I’ll really do it. No more procrastination.
“Nothing can separate us from Him,” I added thoughtfully, “except for ourselves.”
The class was silent as everyone pondered my last comment. Brother Stowers nodded his head. His mouth began to form another word, but it never came out. Instead, the bell rang marking the end of the hour, and everyone scrambled to pile up their books and make their way out the door. Brother Stowers smiled and walked to the door. He shook our hands as we left class and told us he would see us tomorrow. I, for one, could hardly wait.

Pain and concentration contorted Clint Smith’s features as the 17-year-old clung desperately to the cliff face with one hand. A faint clatter of pebbles meeting the earth reached his ears from some 50 feet below. While climbing the massive granite wall, his feet had slipped from beneath him. Gravity tore one hand from its hold and threatened to unglue the other.
The scene would be frightening if you didn’t know that Clint is an experienced climber decked out in safety gear and securely attached to a belay line handled by a man with more than 30 years of climbing experience. After an agonizing moment, Clint got his feet back under him and smoothly ascended the remaining rock to the top.

The Lodi 2nd Ward Primary, Lodi California Stake, celebrated President Thomas S. Monson’s birthday with service. Each child completed an act of service and then filled out a card describing their service. Some children helped their family take food to a neighbor, others shared school supplies with kids that didn’t have any, and lots of kids helped around the house. These cards were sent to President Monson for his birthday. They also had a birthday party and made the rainbow cake President Monson’s mother made for him when he was a boy, featured in the August 2012 issue of the Friend.

When he got home from his mission, Elder Richard J. Maynes joined a college basketball team. The coach wanted his players to be in shape for the season. Before they were allowed to touch a basketball, each player had to run through the hills near the school in a certain amount of time. It was so hard, Elder Maynes thought he was going to die! But after weeks of training, he was finally able to beat the time the coach set as a goal.
Elder Maynes said that just like we have to work hard to get into good physical shape, we have to work hard to get into good spiritual shape too. We keep our testimonies strong by studying, learning, and living the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ. (See “The Strength to Endure” from the Sunday morning session.)

When my children were young, I served as a bishop, played ball, and owned my own business. But we always found time for family home evening each Monday night. One of our activities was learning the Articles of Faith. Whoever memorized them got to go on a special outing with Dad. One of my sons who met this goal chose to go bowling. Since a nearby bowling alley was open all night, we decided to go there at 5:00 A.M. We had so much fun that the whole family went bowling several times during early morning hours.

Another young woman, Katie, was at camp. She felt angry and abandoned because of overwhelming family problems. Her testimony teetered, in serious jeopardy. But a concerned leader, in an effort to live up to his holy calling, wrote Katie a note saying, “I love you. I believe in you. You have a testimony, because I have heard you bear it in these ways.” Then he listed those ways. The note arrived at the right time; Katie was strengthened to live her covenants because someone else strived to live his.

Juanito tried to brush the dirt off his torn shirt. “Why did I have to lose my temper again?” he muttered to himself.
As he made his way down the path, he could see his mother and sister gathering vegetables from the family garden behind the house. Nearby, his grandmother was sitting on a bench under an orange tree working busily on her nanduti (lace).
“Hola, Juanito!” his mother said as she walked toward the house with a basket full of vegetables. “Why are you so late today?”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I’ll try not to be late again,” replied Juanito. He turned away quickly and hurried into the house to change his clothes before she noticed his torn and dirty shirt.
“Oh, Juanito, you’ve been fighting again!” his mother said crossly when she saw his swollen cheek. “When will you learn that fighting is not the way to settle your problems? Come into the house and let me put some salve on your face while you tell me what happened this time.”
“We were playing soccer after school,” Juanito began, “when some older boys came along and started pushing everyone out of the game. Carlos and Pablo left, but I decided I would not be a coward. So each time they knocked me down I got up again. Then one time when the ball was not even near me, Roberto tripped me and I fell into a puddle of mud.”
“Oh, Juanito, I’m sorry,” sighed his mother.
“Roberto just stood there laughing at me and calling me names, and before I knew it I hit him. Then all the others were after me,” Juanito explained.
Mama only frowned as she applied salve to Juanito’s face. “There,” she said at last. “I’m finished. Now Juanito, I want you to promise me that you will not fight again. Fighting is not the way to settle a problem.”
“I’ll try, Mama, but it won’t be easy,” Juanito replied softly.
Soon after the family turned their attention to preparing the vegetables to be taken to market the next morning. As he worked, Juanito thought about Señor Benet, the village baker, who had asked Juanito to sell his bread in the market for him.
Early the next morning Juanito dressed in clean white clothes. He combed his hair carefully and hurried to Señor Benet’s shop. The basket of round flat bread was still fragrant and warm.
“I know you will do well, Juanito,” said Señor Benet.
“Thank you,” Juanito answered. “I’ll see you this evening with an empty basket,” he called as he hurried to catch up with his family.
When they reached the plaza, everyone was setting out their wares, but Juanito decided that he would make better sales if he moved through the crowd.
“Pan del dia (fresh bread)! Pan del dia!” he called as he walked along. By the time the sun had risen high in the sky, he had sold nearly half of the loaves.
It is hot, thought Juanito, wiping his forehead. I think I’ll rest in the shade for a few minutes.
“Hola, Juanito!” came a voice from the crowd. “What are you doing and what have you got there in your basket?”
Juanito looked up into the face of Roberto.
“I’m selling this bread for Señor Benet,” Juanito replied.
“Bread! Is that bread?” asked Roberto, picking up a round flat loaf. “It does not look like bread. See how it flies through the air like a bird!”
With a quick twist of his wrist, Roberto tossed the bread so that it floated down the street.
“Stop!” cried Juanito. “You must not do that!”
Roberto was laughing so hard he could not hear. He reached for another loaf and sent it sailing.
Clenching his fists, Juanito stepped toward him. Then he seemed to hear again his mother’s words, “Fighting is not the way to settle a problem.”
When Roberto reached for another loaf, Juanito paused a moment and then stepped back and began to laugh. His laugh was soft at first and then it grew louder and louder, until all those nearby began to stop to see what was happening.
Looking toward the crowd, Juanito said in a loud voice, “See this Roberto! He buys bread to throw away. Watch how he does it.”
Juanito picked up a loaf and handed it to Roberto. “Go ahead! Throw as many as you like. I will keep count, and you may pay me when you have finished.”
“Pay you?” muttered Roberto. “I’ll not pay …” he began. Then he noticed all the people who had gathered around them. “Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered. “Let me see—I owe you for three loaves.”
Roberto reached into his pocket and opened his wallet.
“Here is your money,” he said gruffly. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Pan del dia! Pan del dia!” Juanito began to call again. Soon all the bread was gone, and he made his way to where his mother and father were waiting to go home.
“Such a fine salesman,” said Señor Benet when Juanito handed him the money. “From now on you will take all my bread to market.”
Juanito whistled as he hurried down the trail, listening to the coins he had earned jingle in his pocket. “Mama was right,” he said to himself. “Fighting is not the way to settle a problem—especially if I can let my head work instead of my fists!”

Yes, it’s true—a blind postman! His name was Owen Jones, and he delivered the mail for almost twenty-five years.
Owen was born in 1819 in a little village in Wales. When he was just a small boy, he fell into the fireplace, severely burning his face and losing the sight in one eye. When he was about thirty, he lost the sight in his other eye.
At first, he was discouraged and depressed, but before long, his natural, happy disposition returned. He continued to play the violin, and he worked at developing his talents for mimicking voices and telling stories. He learned to accept his blindness without bitterness, and, like many blind people, he developed his other senses.
When the missionaries came to Wales, he and his family were baptized and decided to go to America. He and his brother and sister arrived in New Orleans in 1849 on the ship Hartley. From there they made their way to Utah. Owen settled in Brigham City, a small community about sixty miles north of Salt Lake City, where there were other Welsh pioneers.
The neighbors found him cheerful, sociable, and friendly. He often did small repairs for them, and he made chair seats of rush (a course grass), cane, and rawhide.
He never had any trouble getting around the little town. He had an excellent sense of direction, counted the steps between fences and trees, and listened to the sounds around him.
When the job of postman became available, someone suggested that “Blind Man Jones,” as he was affectionately called, could do it. He was happy for the opportunity to be useful and to earn a steady paycheck.
He did well at his new job. Each day an associate sorted the mail for him and put it in the proper order in his canvas bag. Then away he went. Carrying a long buggy whip in front of him much like blind people nowadays use a white cane, he made his way around the town, delivering the mail. If he was not sure he had the right letters in his hand, he asked homeowners to check and resort them for him.
Owen took his meals with many of the townspeople; they all enjoyed his company and loved to hear stories about his early life in Wales. He spoke English almost as well as his native Welsh, and he was often called on to translate for immigrants who had not yet learned English.
Many children remembered having him in their homes for meals and parties. Owen loved to be a part of these happy times. Sometimes the carpet was rolled up, and the children danced to his violin music. He particularly enjoyed hearing the children’s laughter as they hopped and skipped to the music.
After one evening of dancing and merriment, the host asked his son to walk Owen home. After a block or so, he said to the boy, “You’d better go back; it must be very dark.”
“But what about you?”
“Oh, I can find my way without any trouble. Remember, the world looks the same to me whether it is night or day!”
The children always watched for him, and they took his hand and walked along with him, especially when he came to a small footbridge over a little creek. He probably would have had no trouble getting across, for the bridge had a railing, but he let the children feel that he really needed their help, and they loved it.
Owen never complained, and he never seemed to feel sorry for himself. He often said, “I would much rather lose my eyesight than my hearing. I can laugh and joke with friends, play the violin, and enjoy the music. I can hear the birds and the rushing streams and the other sounds of the world around me. Those are the things that give me joy!”
Owen Jones died of pneumonia in 1894 and was buried in the Brigham City Cemetery. He never married, but he enjoyed the love and affection of all the townspeople just the same as if he had been part of their families. He was an inspiration to all who knew him because he was willing to make the most of his abilities.
“It is not so bad to lose your sight,” he once said. “After all, what counts is what is in your mind!”
We could all learn a thing or two about living from Owen.

Sister Massey and I have been married for 12 years; I commend her for keeping up with me. We had the desire of making those sacred covenants in the Temple, we consistently worked towards that goal and were sealed to each other and our 1.5yr old daughter in the Hong Kong, China temple on March 25th, 2015. The moment was desired above all. We felt relieved. We knew that as we keep those covenants, we would not lose each other. There were several blessings we received as we made those covenants. Through ‘rain and sunshine’ we gained a lot, even lost some, but one thing was constant, we always had each other, as each other’s strengths, which I feel is the most needed blessing that comes from living and honoring temple covenants. It is a promise that the Lord will guide us, as we walk in faith together as eternal companions, holding on to each other, nurturing the children the Lord has blessed us with.