Gospel Story Finder

While my mom was expecting my sister Chantel, the whole family tried to guess if she was having a boy or a girl. I was sure it was a boy, since we already had seven girls. We only had three boys, and all of them were older than me. I hoped I was right because it would have been so nice to have a brother who wasn’t big enough to tease me. But when Chantel came to our family, I knew that no one could top this special new girl.
Chantel has Down’s syndrome, which makes it hard for her to learn things quickly. She had to learn sign language because her hearing wasn’t very good. We learned the basics with her and tried to help when we could. We have discovered that Chantel is a peacemaker. When everyone else is fighting or yelling at each other, Chantel is not involved. She is always the one to help us remember that we should be helping, not hurting, each other.
As she grew older, Chan and I became pals. One day I was trying to teach her how to tie her shoelaces. I would show her how to do it and then untie them to let her try. After a while, we both got discouraged. It was hard for Chantel because she couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tie them so she could go play. I lost my patience and began coaxing her with harsh words that were loud and mean. Shocked at my yelling she looked at me with fright in her eyes, and a small tear melted down her cheek. Then she sniffled and pleaded with a soft choked-up voice, “I love you.”
The tables had turned, and now my little sister was teaching me. What I learned that day was something much more important than how to tie a shoe. Even though I was angry and mean, she still loved me. I had tried to teach Chantel something that wasn’t all that important. But in her, I found a Christlike example to follow, an example of forgiveness and kindness.
I can’t think of a more important lesson to learn.

We returned to Brigham City for the funeral of my wife’s father, William W. Smith. A young man I knew as a seminary student stood at the casket, deeply moved. I did not know that he knew my father-in-law.
He said: “One summer I worked for him on the farm. Brother Smith talked to me about going on a mission. My family could not possibly support a missionary. Brother Smith told me to pray about it and said, ‘If you decide to go on a mission, I will pay for your mission,’ and he did.”
Neither my wife nor her mother knew that. It was one of those things that grandfathers do.

Prison Warden Kenyon J. Scudder has told this story:
He happened to be sitting in a railroad coach next to a young man who was obviously depressed. Finally the man revealed that he was a convict returning from a distant prison. His imprisonment had brought shame on his family, and they had neither visited him nor written often. He hoped, however, that this was only because they were too poor to travel and too uneducated to write. He hoped, despite the evidence, that they had forgiven him.
To make it easy for them, however, he had written them to put up a signal for him when the train passed their little farm on the outskirts of town. If his family had forgiven him and felt that he could rebuild his life in his own home and own town, they were to put a white ribbon in the upper branch of the apple tree located in the lower pasture near the railroad tracks. If, however, they felt it would be best for him to rebuild his life in a new environment, in a new city, they were to do nothing, and he would remain on the train.
As the train neared his home town, the suspense became so great he couldn’t bear to look out of his window. His companion changed places with him and said he would watch for the apple tree. In a minute, he put his hand on the young convict’s arm. “I can see the tree,” he said.
The young man then asked, “Does it contain a white ribbon?”
The reply, “Not one white ribbon, but a white ribbon on every branch!”
In that instant, all the bitterness that had poisoned a life was dispelled. Warden Scudder said to the young man, “I feel as if I have witnessed a miracle.”
The young man responded, “Perhaps you have.”

Miles of gray desert ended abruptly in a miragelike valley of green. A cluster of neat houses sparsely shaded by poplar and cedar trees flanked both sides of the road. Near the center of town stood a bank, a mini-supermarket, a hardware and general mercantile store, and a combination garage and service station.
A few strings of tinsel and pasteboard Santa Claus placards swung wearily in the hot breeze above the street. In the doubtful shade of a large cedar stood a small frame building with a weathered sign that read: U.S. POST OFFICE, DESERT CITY, ARIZONA, POPULATION 467. The cedar was decorated with colored bulbs and strands of red and green paper. Inside the post office a wreath of holly hung over a grilled window which boasted a faded sign: GENERAL DELIVERY … STAMPS.
Behind the window, Luke Jones sorted the mail without conscious thought or effort. After 30 years in Desert City there was little he didn’t know about every resident—with one exception, the stranger who had arrived in town two days before. Luke shrugged, murmuring under his breath, “Curiosity killed the cat.” His lips twitched into a wry grin. “Must be a mighty long trail of dead cats behind me.”
Luke heard a scuffle of feet and turned toward the door. Mrs. Abbie Smithers walked in, and just behind her stood the stranger. Luke’s eyes watched the stranger, but his words were to Mrs. Smithers. “Got a postcard for you, Abbie. From your sister in Colorado. She ain’t going to get here for Christmas after all.”
“For pity’s sake!” Mrs. Smithers said. “I’ve cleaned house until the whole place shines like a new pin.”
“Don’t fret,” Luke said calmly. “It’s only a delay. Her little girl came down with the chicken pox. Here—you better read it yourself.”
As Mrs. Smithers left the window, the stranger asked, “Anything for Bill Anders?”
Luke’s sharp eyes studied him. He knew without looking that there was nothing, yet he turned and slowly sorted through some letters, his gaze darting sideways at the young man. “Ain’t you the fellar whose car broke down here day before yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
“Too bad,” Luke said. He looked directly at the serious-faced young man. “I hear it’s costing you $70 to get it fixed.” His glance was shrewd. “Garageman was in a while ago. Said it’s been ready for you since yesterday.”
“That’s right. Have I got a letter?”
“Where you expecting this letter from?”
Anders’s face flushed. “Look, I just want to know—”
“If I know where it’s from,” Luke interrupted, “maybe I can tell you when it’ll be here.”
Anders looked down at the floor. “It’s coming from Los Angeles. I wrote airmail two days ago when my car broke down.”
“Ain’t here yet,” Luke drawled.
Anders’s face shadowed. He turned to leave.
“Should be in tomorrow,” Luke said. “Mail gets in at 11:00.”
Anders limped toward the door, and Luke noticed that he wore a heavy brace with a built-up shoe on one foot.
“Hey, Anders!”
The young man stopped and turned around.
“You clear broke?” An angry flush reddened Anders’s face. “None of your business!”
Slyly Luke said, “You got money coming in that letter, ain’t you?”
“What’s it to you?” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said more quietly, “Yes, 100 dollars. Anything else you’d like to know?”
Without expression, Luke said, “From your folks, hey?”
Anders hobbled back to the window; his face was white. “Look, my folks are dead. A friend of mine in L.A. is sending me the money. At least, I asked him to send it, and I’m sure he will.”
“Maybe,” Luke said dryly, “maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you find out you ain’t got a friend when you ask for money.”
Anders stared at him, then said, “Jim isn’t that way.”
Luke could sense an uncertainty behind the words. “Where you going from here if this Jim sends the money?”
Bill Anders’s mood changed suddenly. He looked at Luke and grinned. “Darned if you aren’t the most nosy, old … curious man I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve been told that.”
Anders laughed. “All right, you might as well know. I’ve got a job waiting for me in Albuquerque that I’ve been trying to get since high school. A good job. A big chance for me.” His voice lowered. “I’ve got to get there in time to begin work the day after Christmas. I’ve got to!” He turned abruptly and limped out to the street.
Luke rubbed his chin and stared after him.
At 11:30 the next morning Luke finished sorting the mail to the barely audible Christmas carols coming from the battered radio on the shelf. He examined again the letter addressed to Bill Anders. The postmark was smudged beyond recognition; the name and the address were typed. Luke held the envelope up to the light. He could see the outline of currency inside. He fingered the envelope. It crinkled like crisp, new greenbacks crinkle. Yes, it contained the 100 dollars Bill Anders was waiting for.
Luke’s lips thinned a little. A hundred dollars could mean a lot to a person, even to a man in his position. It could mean that new fishing outfit he wanted for his next vacation. He smiled at the thought. A Christmas gift to himself …
He fondled the letter. What he would have given years ago for this money! It might have changed his whole life—marriage, children, grandchildren—but he had been unable to borrow the money. Friends—even relatives—had turned him down. He slammed the letter into the mail slot. Why should he worry about a crippled young man, a stranger he would never see again?
Luke heard dragging footsteps on the wood floor and turned around to see a subdued Bill Anders, a face lined with worry, yet eyes which still held a lurking hope.
Luke hesitated, and then he reached into the slot and pulled out the mail under the letter A. Deliberately he sorted through the letters; indecision still weighed upon him. He didn’t have to give this letter to the boy. But if he didn’t, could he ever live with himself? Could he look into a mirror without seeing the disappointment on the young man’s face?
He held the letter away from the others.
“Is that for me?” Anders’s voice was strained.
Luke held the letter up to the light. “Postmark’s smudged. Can’t tell where it’s from.”
“Is it for me?”
“Ain’t got a return address on it,” Luke drawled.
“It’s from Jim! It must be!”
Luke watched the boy’s face. It was transformed. His eyes were shining now, the lines of strain and worry vanished. Luke waited a moment longer, and then he tossed the letter through the iron grill.
Anders ripped open the envelope. Five crisp, 20-dollar bills fell out. There was no message. Carefully he picked up the money, handling each greenback almost with reverence. He glanced up at Luke. “Jim isn’t one to write,” he explained, “but when a guy needs help, he comes through.”
“Guess you got a real friend, hey?” Luke said softly.
As he reached the door, his shoulders straight, Anders looked back and smiled. “Merry Christmas!”
Luke watched him limp down the street toward the garage. He sighed heavily and turned again to the mail rack. From the A slot he withdrew a postcard. It was postmarked Los Angeles and addressed to Bill Anders. The few scribbled words on the back were still fresh in Luke’s memory. “Dear Bill: Sorry I can’t help. Things are tight for me too. Jim.”
Slowly Luke placed the card on the counter and stamped it “UNCLAIMED.”
His voice was fretful as he muttered, “Curiosity cost more than a cat this time.” But he was smiling as he turned back to his work.
From the battered radio came the soft strains of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.”

Fifty Primary children from the Littleton Colorado Stake, Colorado, USA, helped sort donations after a flood in Colorado. The children wore Mormon Helping Hands vests and loaded clothes, toys, furniture, household items, and diapers into a large truck. One child said, “It felt good doing something for someone else.” Another said, “It makes me happy and proud because this will make a difference in their lives.”

At a youth conference last year, the air was filled with cries of excitement as the teens experienced yet another first—baseball. Only two or three of the youth who attended the conference had ever played the game before, so they were given the assignment to explain the rules to the others.
“It was a brand-new experience to learn how to play baseball, since soccer and badminton are the sports we play here,” says Malvinder.
In addition to baseball, youth conference was filled with other fun games and activities. Although the youth enjoyed the activities, they say what they will remember most about the experience was the opportunity to meet people with similar beliefs and to draw courage from knowing they are not alone.
Ariana Dabier, a Mia Maid, says, “It was great to see so many Malaysian youth who are just like me—faced with similar trials and temptations—and yet they stand firm in their faith. I now know that no matter where I go on this earth, the gospel will be the same.”

Every year the eighth graders in my middle school get to choose what their graduation colors, flowers, and theme will be. They also get to decide what the basic style of the girls’ and boys’ outfits will be so that pictures will look nice and consistent.
My year, when all the girls got together to discuss what style their dresses would be, I was a little nervous. I was concerned about how I could make the other girls understand that I’d chosen not to wear short skirts or spaghetti straps, even if that was the style chosen. I didn’t want to ruin the pictures, but I also wouldn’t choose to be immodest.
Then something amazing happened. Before I had an opportunity to express my concerns, a girl in my class shouted, “It has to have sleeves and go at least to our knees because Abby needs to dress that way.” Before I could blink, everyone decided on short-sleeved, knee-length dresses. I could hardly believe what had happened. I’m so thankful that I’ve always lived the standards and set a positive example for those around me. Because I chose to dress modestly, others noticed and were respectful of my decision.
Abby H., California, USA

“Going to a new school is hard. I hope I can make some friends.”
“Hey, wanna hang out with us?”
“Sure!”
“Wow, I’m glad I won’t be alone today.”
For the first few days, things were going great until …
“Did you see her hair?”
“Look at his shoes; they’re so ugly!”
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“I don’t think I should hang out with those guys anymore, but if I leave, who will I hang out with?”
“I think I need to stop hanging out with them. I hope I’ll make new friends. But if not, I still want to do what’s right.”
It’s difficult for a while, but he’s still hopeful that he will make new friends.
“Hey, how’s it going? My name’s Antonio. What’s yours?”

“I want to tell you about a couple of things that happened to me,” Mother began. “When your dad and I were first married, we went on a trip to Yellowstone National Park. Even though it was getting late in the day, your father wanted to push on to the next town before stopping for the night. But I had a strong feeling that we should stop right where we were. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way, but I did. I told your father, and he said, ‘If that’s what you feel we should do, we’ll do it.’ Now, to this day, I don’t know why I felt that way, but I’m glad that we didn’t drive any farther until the next morning.
“One more thing,” Mother continued. “The night your dad died—before I got the phone call telling me what had happened—I already knew. All that night I had had a feeling that something was terribly wrong.
“In both cases, I am absolutely certain that it was the Holy Ghost speaking to me.”
“And that’s how you feel about the silo?” Lance asked.
“That’s right. I can’t give you any other reason except that I strongly feel you shouldn’t play there anymore.”
Later that night, when they were both in bed, Mike asked, “Lance, do you really believe what Mom said about the Holy Ghost?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“How come?”
“I’ve never told anyone this, but do you know Bobby Morrison?”
“The tall kid with red hair?”
“That’s the one. Well, last year he and I planned how to cheat on a history test. I’m not going to tell you what the plan was, because I don’t want you trying a dumb stunt like that.”
“If it’s so dumb, why did you do it?”
“Well, I’m getting to that part. When the test started, it was like I could feel this voice. And it was really strong. It said, ‘You know it’s wrong to cheat.’ After that, I just couldn’t go through with it.”
“And that voice was the Holy Ghost?”
“Yeah. So I know that there is a Holy Ghost. If Mom says that He spoke to her, I believe her.”
“So you’re not even going to sneak over to the silo?”
“No.”
“Well,” Mike said reluctantly, “I guess I won’t either.”
The next few days were hard for the boys. They had to think of new games to play that didn’t involve the silo. One afternoon Lance said, “Let’s put a puzzle together.”
“Ah, who wants to do that?” Mike groaned.
“Do you have any better ideas?”
Since Mike didn’t, they set up a table on the porch and started working on a puzzle. But Mike had a hard time concentrating—his eyes kept wandering in the direction of the silo. The good old silo. “Too bad we can’t play there anymore,” he thought miserably.
“Hey, stop daydreaming,” Lance said.
Before Mike could reply, Mother came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade.
As the three of them drank from frosty glasses, they heard a low rumble. The ground trembled, and the puzzle pieces on the table started doing a crazy dance.
“Look!” Mike pointed at the silo.
It wobbled and leaned to one side. The rumble grew louder while another sound filled the air—the sound of metal scraping, grinding, and ripping. A great cloud of dust rose up as the silo crashed to the ground.
Grandpa came running out of the house. “What in the world?” Then he saw the silo. “Oh! Oh, my!”
That night Mike lay in bed awake. Mother really had been prompted by the Holy Ghost. He was glad that he and Lance had listened to her. He promised himself and Heavenly Father that he would live the kind of life that would allow him to hear for himself the Holy Ghost’s still, small voice.
“Obey the inner feelings that come as promptings from the Holy Ghost.”Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “The Joy of Living the Great Plan of Happiness,” Ensign, Nov. 1996, 75.

For some, there will come the temptation to dishonor a personal standard of honesty. In a business law class at the university I attended, I remember that one particular classmate never prepared for the class discussions. I thought to myself, “How is he going to pass the final examination?”

I discovered the answer when he came to the classroom for the final exam on a winter’s day wearing on his bare feet only a pair of sandals. I was surprised and watched him as the class began. All of our books had been placed upon the floor, as per the instruction. He slipped the sandals from his feet; and then, with toes that he had trained and had prepared with glycerin, he skillfully turned the pages of one of the books which he had placed on the floor, thereby viewing the answers to the examination questions.

He received one of the highest grades in that course on business law. But the day of reckoning came. Later, as he prepared to take his comprehensive exam, for the first time the dean of his particular discipline said, “This year I will depart from tradition and will conduct an oral, rather than a written, test.” Our favorite trained-toe expert found that he had his foot in his mouth on that occasion and failed the exam.

Several years ago I had the opportunity of playing quarterback in the National Football League. Over a seven-year period I played for the Pittsburgh Steelers, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Atlanta Falcons.
The first of the two thrills took place one day when I was playing with the Steelers against the Philadelphia Eagles. On the first play of the game from scrimmage, I faked to the halfback and dropped back into the pocket. I threw a long pass down the sideline, and my receiver, who was racing down the sideline as fast as he could go, reached out with one hand, caught the ball, pulled it in, and went all the way for a touchdown.
That touchdown pass was a great thrill for me. It was really exciting with 80,000 people cheering. Not many people will have that particular thrill during their lifetime.
The second thrill happened after I retired from professional football. A young man became interested in the gospel through some discussions we had. I invited him to my home. He brought his girl friend with him, and the full-time missionaries taught them the gospel. They were converted. I had the opportunity of baptizing these two young people. A year later they came to Salt Lake City, and I had the privilege of going through the Salt Lake Temple with them when they were sealed for time and eternity.
The experience of seeing those beautiful young people accept the gospel and be united forever was a great thrill. It was a different kind of thrill than the touchdown pass. There were only a few people present in the “sacred silence,” but it was still very exciting.
When I compare the thrill of the touchdown pass with the thrill of those baptisms, there is absolutely no comparison. The baptisms were far more exciting! That may sound phony at first, because now we “see through a glass darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12), but I testify that the greatest thrills in this life come from serving the Lord.
It’s perfectly logical when we think about it. Who is going to remember that touchdown pass? Just two people—myself and the fellow who caught the ball. No one else will feel the impact or even remember the play. Just try to remember who played in the Super Bowl two years ago.
In contrast, contemplate all those who will remember the baptisms: this young couple’s children, grandchildren, and many generations to come, not to mention those this couple have brought into the Church.
At the day of judgment, the books will be opened, and those baptisms will be noted. We will be able to see that record, and angels will look upon it. Many will feel the impact of this thrill throughout eternity. “And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me” (D&C 18:16). And while few of us may experience the thrill of a touchdown pass, every young man and woman in the Church can know the greater thrill of sharing the gospel!
There are many exciting thrills in life, but we will enjoy the greatest of them through the gospel by learning and growing, by teaching, by sharing, by serving as a friend and a missionary. If we can learn to love the things that God loves, we will comprehend the true meaning of life, and we will seek after the joy of the gospel with all our heart, might, mind, and strength.

“Here she comes!” Shelly hissed, and the three girls flattened themselves against the ground.
The wild sweet peas rustled, and Julie jumped.
“Shhh!” Deena whispered. “If she sees you, she’ll turn you into a frog.”
Julie knew it wasn’t true, but she shivered anyway. Cautiously she peeked through the tangled weeds. Across the street she saw the hunched figure of the old woman trudging toward her mailbox. Overgrown shrubbery caught at the sleeve of the woman’s patched sweater as she made her way down the path from her house to the side of the road. The girls watched as the old lady’s gnarled hand tugged at the rusted latch. She peered inside, then closed the little door. With her shoulders hunched even more, she turned and walked empty-handed back to her house.
Shelly rolled over on her side and propped her head up with one hand. “Why do you think she looks for mail every day when she never gets any?”
“Do you really think witches get mail?” Deena asked.
“Oh, Deena, she’s not really a witch,” Julie said.
“She is, too!” Shelly protested. “Why else would she live all by herself in that old run-down house? She never talks to anyone, and did you notice her hair? It looks kind of green under that old scarf she wears. Of course she’s a witch!”
Julie shrugged. The stories they made up about the witch who lived down the street had added a little excitement to the long summer afternoons, but Julie’s mother had told her that Mrs. O’Hearn was just a lonely old lady who had no one to look after her. Sometimes Julie felt sorry for her and even considered being Mrs. O’Hearn’s friend. But she was afraid. Maybe the woman really is a witch, she thought.
“Let’s go back to your place, Julie,” Shelly said as she scrambled to her feet.
The three girls cut across Julie’s front yard and glanced around quickly before sliding into the space between the garage and the neighbor’s fence. Blackberry vines curved overhead to form a tunnel. It was their own special place.
“Want to play truth or dare?” Deena asked.
“OK,” Shelly replied.
“It was my idea, so I go first. Truth or dare, Shelly.”
“Dare.” Shelly always chose the dare.
“I dare you”—the other two girls learned forward eagerly—“to go knock on the witch’s door.”
“You have to come, too,” Shelly said.
“Oh, we’ll come, but only as far as the corner of the hedge.”
From the street Mrs. O’Hearn’s house was barely visible, but the back door was only separated from the alley by a wooden porch. The three girls paused at the hedge that marked the boundary of Mrs. O’Hearn’s yard.
“Go on, Shelly,” Deena prodded.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Julie said hesitantly.
“Aw, come on, Julie, don’t be such a sissy. Besides, all you have to do is hide,” Deena said.
“I know, but …” Julie stopped. I know it’s wrong to tease the old woman, she thought, but I don’t want Deena and Shelly to make fun of me.
Shelly darted forward. Her feet echoing against the wooden planks, she pounded on the door, then raced back to where the girls hid behind the laurel hedge.
The door opened, and the old woman looked in their direction. “You young rascals stay away from my door!” she shouted, shaking her fist. The door slammed as she went back inside.
The girls scampered back to their hideout to continue their game.
“It’s my turn now,” Shelly announced. “Julie, you’re first, and this time you have to pick a dare.”
“Yeah, Julie,” Deena agreed. “You never want to take a dare.”
“I dare you to go look in the witch’s window,” Shelly said before Julie could protest.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Deena applauded.
“That’s not fair,” Julie argued. “She’ll be watching.”
“She’ll never see you,” Shelly said,” not if you’re quiet.”
“Julie’s a scaredy-cat. Julie’s a scaredy-cat,” Deena began to chant.
“OK, OK, I’ll do it.”
“That’s better.” Shelly led the way back to the alley. When they reached the hedge, she began to whisper directions.
“Just follow the hedge to the Petersons’ yard, then go along their fence to that hole. You can squeeze through there, and you’ll be right under her window. All you have to do is climb that apple tree and look inside.”
As Julie crept along the hedge and Peterson’s fence, she wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans. She hoped Mrs. Peterson would see her and chase her out of the yard, but nothing happened. She reached the gap in the fence and looked back.
“Go on!” Shelly motioned.
Dropping to her knees, Julie edged forward, her heart pounding. She rose to her feet, and directly in front of her, on the other side of the tree, was the house. She glanced toward the alley. Shelly and Deena were hidden from view. It was very quiet, and Julie felt totally alone.
They’ll never know if I don’t do it, she told herself. But even as she thought it, she moved toward the tree.
Julie’s sneaker-clad foot slipped once on the damp bark, but soon she reached the level of the window. Curiosity overcame her fear, and Julie rubbed the dirty windowpane with a dampened finger and peered inside.
The room was dark. At first she could only make out dim outlines of furniture. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw the old woman hunched over a table, her head resting on her arms. At first Julie thought that she was sleeping. Then she saw the shaking shoulders and realized that the woman was crying.
Julie slid down the tree, thoroughly ashamed of her actions. She retraced her path and joined the other two girls in the alley.
“What did you see?” demanded Deena.
“Was she making witch’s brew in a kettle?” Shelly asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Julie snapped.
“Well, what did you see?” both girls chorused.
Julie hesitated. “Nothing,” she said at last. “It was too dark.”
A voice called out.
“That’s my mother,” Julie said. “I’d better go.” She ran home, glad to get away from the house and from her friends’ questions.
“Want to get cleaned up and go shopping with me?” her mother asked.
As they drove toward town, Julie kept remembering Mrs. O’Hearn bent over her kitchen table, shaking with sobs. She was sorry that they had teased her.
While her mother shopped, Julie paused at the greeting card counter. She picked up a small card with a picture of a raccoon in a mailbox. It seemed to have a smile on its face, and one paw poked out as if it wanted to shake hands. Julie looked at the card for a long time. “Can I get this?” she asked when her mother came by.
Her mother glanced at the card in Julie’s hand, and smiled. “It’s kind of cute, isn’t it? All right, we can buy it. Just tuck it into the shopping cart.”
When they were home from the store, Julie pulled the card from the shopping bag. Just looking at the furry little animal made her want to smile. She slipped the card into its envelope and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. Then she went outside.
The next day Julie hunched down in the tall weeds of the vacant lot and waited. The sun grew warm, and the back of her neck began to itch, but Julie stayed motionless as she continued to watch the house across the street.
At last Mrs. O’Hearn came down the path. She opened her mailbox and started to turn away. Then she stopped and looked inside again. Slowly she reached into the box and pulled out a small white envelope. The gnarled fingers shook as she opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside.
Julie saw Mrs. O’Hearn open the card and read it, then carefully slide it back into its envelope and into her pocket. The old woman looked across the street for a moment, smiled, then turned to make her way back to the house.
Julie rolled over on her back and watched the clouds skim across the blue summer sky. Aloud she recited the words that had been written inside the card: “Have a nice day. From your Secret Friend.”

An Expression of Kindness
Two young missionaries knocked on a door, hoping to find someone to receive their message. The door opened, and a rather large man greeted them in a less-than-friendly voice: “I thought I told you not to knock on my door again. I warned you before that if you ever came back, it would not be a pleasant experience. Now leave me alone.” He quickly closed the door.
As the elders walked away, the older, more experienced missionary put his arm on the younger missionary’s shoulder to comfort and encourage him. Unknown to them, the man watched them through the window to be sure they understood his message. He fully expected to see them laugh and make light of his curt response to their attempted visit. However, as he witnessed the expression of kindness between the two missionaries, his heart was instantly softened. He reopened the door and asked the missionaries to come back and share their message with him.

When a doctor advised Kay Salveson of Nibley, Utah, to exercise as a treatment for her frequent stress headaches, she couldn’t imagine how she would be able to do it with little time or money. In desperation, she got an old stationary bike and pedaled while her children watched television. It worked. Now Sister Salveson takes brisk walks for exercise. “As I take in the view, I am uplifted by the magical changing seasons and I am humbled by God’s beautiful creations surrounding me, which seem to put everything back into perspective,” she says. “Some people say they walk off pounds. That is true—but I also walk off problems and discouragement.”

Many years ago, our 15-year-old son Eric suffered a serious head injury. Seeing him in a coma for over a week broke our hearts. The doctors told us they were uncertain about what would happen next. Obviously, we were thrilled when he began to regain consciousness. We thought now everything was going to be fine, but we were mistaken.

When he awoke, he could not walk or talk or feed himself. Worst of all, he had no short-term memory. He could remember most everything before the accident, but he had no ability to remember events after, even things which had happened only minutes earlier.

For a time, we worried we would have a son locked in the mind of a 15-year-old. Things had come very easily to our son before the accident. He was athletic, popular, and did very well in school. Before, his future seemed bright; now we worried he may not have much of a future, at least one he could remember. He now struggled to relearn very, very basic skills. This was a very humbling time for him. It was also a very humbling time for his parents.

Honestly, we wondered how such a thing could happen. We had always strived to do the right things. Living the gospel had been a high priority for our family. We couldn’t understand how something so painful could happen to us. We were driven to our knees as it soon became apparent his rehabilitation would take months, even years. More difficult still was the gradual realization he would not be as he was before.

During this time, many tears were shed and our prayers became even more heartfelt and sincere. Through the eyes of humility, we gradually began to see the small miracles which our son experienced during this painful time. He began making gradual improvement. His attitude and outlook were very positive.

Today, our son Eric is married to a wonderful companion, and they have five beautiful children. He is a passionate educator and contributor to his community, as well as the Church. Most important, he continues to live in the same spirit of humility he gained long ago.

As I went into surgery a few years ago, I was still conscious when the doctors and nurses were standing around me waiting, I said to the specialist, “There are numerous people full of faith who are praying for you this morning.” He quietly replied, “I’ll need their prayers.” It is my firm conviction that the numerous prayers were heard, that his hand was steadied and guided, that his judgment increased, and that as a result of the blessings of the Lord, healing followed and my voice returned to a satisfactory extent. The skeptic might have other answers.

When I was old enough, I was called to serve in Germany. I loved everything about my mission. It was a turning point for me. I came to love Heavenly Father, His Son, and the gospel as never before, and I loved to hear the word of God preached. I came to love the scriptures; I loved reading them and understanding them. I found that the General Authorities who came to see us in the mission field were men of God and had great power to change people’s lives. I saw people accept the gospel and repent and be baptized and be filled with joy.

When I came home from my mission, it was with the firm resolve that I would never be the same—and I never have been. And all that happened because a priests quorum adviser stayed close to the young men in his quorum, taught them the gospel, and helped them learn in a very simple way that they could go on missions and be touched by the Spirit of the Lord.

I believe my decision to go on a mission was an example of choosing the right. I learned to choose the right at my parents’ knees, and I will be forever grateful to them for that. Part of choosing the right is obeying the Lord’s commandment to “honour thy father and thy mother” (Ex. 20:12). We might say it this way: Honor, respect, and obey your father and your mother in righteousness. My life has been blessed because of obeying my parents, just as you will be blessed for choosing the right and obeying your own parents.

Once, on a business trip, I landed in predawn darkness at an airport in Asia and wearily found a car and driver. The trip would take a couple of hours, so I used my overcoat as a cushion and positioned myself in the left corner of the back seat, planning to sleep for a while. But my attention became riveted on the moonlit landscape of that exotic place, with its mysterious wooded hills and shadowy open expanses.

As the morning sky gradually lightened, I saw evidence of an estuary on the left and an approaching bridge. As we drove onto the bridge, I was disappointed to find that the view was blocked on both sides by tall concrete-slab walls that apparently had been erected to contain the traffic noises of the expressway. I absently stared at the wall opposite me, wondering what was beyond as I whirred by it at high speed.

As we left the bridge and the barricade ended, I glanced back at the vista that I had not been able to see and noted that it was just as I had imagined: a large body of water with a forested far edge and a few boats coming and going.

I found myself leaning forward to see farther behind us to confirm that, through the morning fog, a large sailboat was approaching the seaway under the far end of the bridge. Suddenly my jet-lag-muddled brain snapped into a moment of clarity as I wondered, “How did I know to look for that sailboat?” I could not have known it was there, but somehow I did. Somehow I had been looking for it.

In fact, I realized, none of what I saw in the fully revealed vista had surprised me. I seemed to know where to find the wooded outline of the far shore, the barges, and the building on the distant rise. But how?

It dawned on me that the slabs of the massive concrete wall on the bridge had small gaps between them of a fraction of an inch. As we had sped across the bridge, my eyes had been fixed upon the blur of gray concrete punctuated by minute flashes of bright light from the morning sun through those narrow slits—slits too small for me to detect anything but bright flickers and flashes. Yet somewhere in my mind, undetected information had been transmitted in those bursts of light that was apparently compiled and subliminally stitched together into a latent vision of what lay beyond. I knew what was there before I knew that I knew. And I would have missed the marvel of it all if I had not turned back to look.

Thirty-five years ago, my parents were also blinded and were desperately seeking to know the truth and were concerned about where to turn to find it. My parents were both born in the village, where the traditions were rooted in individuals’ and families’ lives. They both left their village when they were young and came to the city, looking for a better life.
They married and started their family in a very modest way. We were almost eight people in a small house—my parents, two of my sisters and I, and a cousin who used to live with us. I was wondering if we were truly a family, as we were not permitted to have dinner at the same table with our parents. When our dad returned from work, as soon as he entered the house, we were asked to leave and to go outside. Our nights were very short, as we could not sleep because of the lack of harmony and true love in our parents’ marriage. Our home was not only small in size, but it was a dark place. Before meeting with the missionaries, we attended different churches every Sunday. It was clear that our parents were seeking for something that the world could not provide.
This went on until we met with Elder and Sister Hutchings, the first senior missionary couple called to serve in Zaire (known today as DR of Congo or Congo-Kinshasa). When we started meeting with these wonderful missionaries, who were like angels that came from God, I noticed that something started to change in our family. After our baptism, we truly started to progressively have a new lifestyle because of the restored gospel. The words of Christ began to enlarge our souls. They began to enlighten our understanding and became delicious to us, as the truths that we received were discernible and we could see the light, and this light grew brighter and brighter daily.
This understanding of the why of the gospel was helping us to become more like the Savior. The size of our home did not change; neither did our social conditions. But I witnessed a change of heart in my parents as we prayed daily, morning and evening. We studied the Book of Mormon; we held family home evening; we truly became a family. Every Sunday we woke up at 6:00 a.m. to prepare to go to church, and we would travel for hours to attend Church meetings every week without complaining. It was a wonderful experience to witness. We, who had previously walked in darkness, chased darkness from among us (see Doctrine and Covenants 50:25) and saw “great light” (2 Nephi 19:2).

Representative of these many noble examples is this young man from Brazil:
Fernando Requino was attending a sacrament meeting in his small branch when he heard the mission president emphasize President Kimball’s declaration that every young man should prepare himself for missionary service. Until that time he hadn’t thought it possible or necessary to even consider serving a mission. He had begun an apprenticeship; he supported himself and earned only enough money to pay for his schooling. His parents were not members of the Church nor were they sympathetic to his affiliation with the Church. Still, the words of the prophet pulled at his heart and mind.
One morning he met privately with his father and told him of his love and respect for him. Drawing upon all the courage he could muster, Fernando looked straight into his father’s eyes and with a soft, humble voice he said, “Father, I want your permission to go on a mission for the Lord, to serve as a missionary in my church.”
His father objected strongly. He reminded Fernando that he had no financial resources with which to pay for such an undertaking. With tears coursing down his cheeks, this son faced his father and answered that he was ready to sell the plot of land that was his inheritance and use the money obtained to finance his mission.
Fernando told his father how a prophet of God had asked every young man to prepare and to go on a mission for the Lord. He told how he himself had fasted and prayed for three days and how the Lord had shown him what to do to fulfill his priesthood responsibility. The father’s heart was softened, and he put his arms about Fernando and together they wept. “If you want to go so much that you are willing to sacrifice your entire inheritance,” said his father, “Then you will have my permission to go. You will not have to sell your property. I will provide the financial support for your mission.”