Gospel Story Finder

Kai noticed that every other Friday, Dad put a check on the refrigerator door.
"What’s that?" Kai asked.
"It’s our tithing check," Dad said. "I put it there to remind us that tithing comes first." He put a magnet over the corner of the check. "I get paid every second Friday. The first check I write is for tithing."
"Even before the house payment?" Kai knew his parents made a payment for the house every month. One time Dad had told him that if they didn’t pay it, they could get in trouble with the bank.
"Even before that," Dad said. "Mom and I have always put tithing first. That’s one way of showing how important Heavenly Father is to us."
Kai thought about it. "What if you don’t have enough money to pay tithing?"
"I’ve found that if you pay tithing first, the money works out. Or you find a way to do without."
Kai remembered the time the car broke down. They didn’t have the money to fix it right away. But Dad said he didn’t mind walking to work for a few weeks.
"Wouldn’t Heavenly Father understand if you had to pay your tithing late?" Kai asked.
"Heavenly Father understands everything about our lives," Dad said. "But when your mom and I were sealed in the temple, we made promises to the Lord and to ourselves. We decided that we would always pay our tithing first, before anything else."
Kai thought of the allowance he got every week. Sometimes he forgot to pay tithing on it for a week or two. He thought about the money he earned mowing lawns around the neighborhood. It wasn’t a lot, since he was only 11. But he decided right then to pay his tithing first—just like his parents did.
From then on, every time Kai earned any money, he set aside his tithing before spending even one penny.
Many years later, Kai had a family of his own. And just like Dad had done, he put his tithing check up on the refrigerator door as soon as he was paid.

by Sister Julia SadleirGeorgia Atlanta Mission
When I was on my mission several years ago, my companion and I rented a studio apartment from Mrs. Hill, an older widow with a strict contract on what she expected while we were living there. It seemed the minute we walked in the house, she would call us to complain. We would always be nice and try harder to please her, but she would constantly find fault.
One incident stands out. We were told not to touch any cats that wandered onto her property. One day we came home and found a cat by our porch. Being an animal lover, my natural instinct took over and I picked the cat up and petted it. Within seconds the phone rang. It was Mrs. Hill, who said, “I saw that! I told you never to touch any cats on my property! I hate cats! I do not want to see this happen again.” I apologized.
Come December it was time to get into the Christmas spirit, so my companion and I made holiday-shaped sugar cookies and decorated them with colored frosting and sprinkles. We made a list of people we planned to give them to, and I said, “Why don’t we include Mrs. Hill? Who knows how she’ll react, but after all, it’s Christmas.”
We put some cookies on a plate and knocked on Mrs. Hill’s back door. When she answered, we said, “Merry Christmas!”
She was touched and also impressed that we had made them ourselves. “I never saw such beautiful cookies,” she said. “They look too pretty to eat. I will have one and save the rest for my grandchildren who are coming to visit today.” She thanked us and wished us a merry Christmas too.
We walked away and couldn’t believe that was the same Mrs. Hill. Even weeks later, she would thank us and inform us she’d told all her friends and family about the beautiful cookies.
Soon she started asking questions about our work. We invited her to take the discussions so she could learn for herself what we share with others. She gladly accepted, so we made an appointment and began teaching Mrs. Hill the gospel. Her countenance changed and she became the nicest person. She loved the Book of Mormon. When she finished it, she shared its truths with others.
It all started with a small plate of cookies. “Out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33).

My husband and I both fell sick to COVID-19 in June 2021, to the point where we could barely get up. Our two babies—a six-month-old and a two-year-old—were healthy, but they needed to eat, and I, their mother, couldn’t even get out of bed.
My mother asked us to go over to her place so she could care for me and my kids. My dilemma was having to choose between the wellbeing of my parents or my children. My father and brother were on heavy medication for conditions unrelated to COVID-19. I did not want to expose my extended family to the virus, but my kids needed someone who was able to take care of them.
It was my mother’s birthday that day we went over. She took care of me and my father, and my siblings took care of my kids. My husband, who is also the bishop in our ward, did not come because he needed to be in the same lockdown area as his ward members in case they ever put up boundaries within the Suva area; our country was on lockdown.
My mum nursed me back to health and then fell sick to COVID herself. By this time, Fiji’s health system was so stressed that it took days for authorities to respond to our emergency call. We were told to take her to the hospital ourselves. My mum was put in a tent for COVID patients. Conditions in the tent were so poor that my father felt we needed to do something.
One day he walked right into the tent filled with COVID patients because my mother needed help to get to the bathroom, and no one was there to help her. His heart was heavy for the other patients in there, as well. Mum was moved into ICU a few days later.
We started providing nutritional packs for COVID patients in tents, to boost their immune system. Our friends and family on Facebook—both members and nonmembers—helped us put together food packs and fruit to help patients get healthy.
A friend of mine asked me to make a bowl of soup for her friend, who was in the isolation centre for mothers, because they weren’t getting sufficient nourishment. This mother was in our lockdown area, but her family members could not cross the border to tend to her needs.
I felt we needed to make soup for everyone else who might be in a similar situation. I put up a post on Facebook to find others who would be willing to help make soup for pregnant mothers and mothers of newborns in isolation. This brought a lot of kindhearted individuals together, united in a cause to help those who were suffering.
My husband and brother-in-law cooked the first lot of soup and delivered it to the hall where the mothers were isolating. My father and siblings would make the deliveries but on days when my father felt too weak to drive, we would get my brother-in-law and my husband—who live in a different town—to help.
Mum spent nearly two months in the hospital and doctors kept saying she might not make it. Hospital workers even discarded her clothes, thinking she wouldn’t survive. We would have family prayer every night with my mum on video call and we would hear her breathing heavily, with the beeping sound of the monitoring machines in the background.
Most nights at 7 PM sharp, Mum called to listen in on our family prayer. On nights she didn’t call, we knew she was not feeling strong enough, so our prayers were even more earnest. Our service to the other patients and our wrestling with the Lord through personal and family prayers helped us through this frightening time.
Our service might have helped others, but we were the ones being blessed—Mum came home alive!

I carried my patriarchal blessing with me during service in the Navy in World War II. I had grown up in Taylorsville, Utah, sheltered and shy, the product of a tranquil pioneer community. I now entered a harsher life, where oaths and profanity were common, where some men made bragging about sexual exploits part of their daily ritual. But again, my patriarchal blessing served as a beacon. Its promises gave me hope that I could stay clean, that I could survive the conflict and live to serve in our Heavenly Father’s kingdom.
Throughout my mission in Europe, a phrase in my patriarchal blessing about preaching the gospel in power reminded me I was on the Lord’s errand and therefore I should speak with authority. When I returned home and began searching for a wife, I knew I must find someone who would help me be worthy. After all, my patriarchal blessing made reference to the joys of a righteous posterity. Today, I am thrilled to go to the temple with my six children and their companions, and I do find joy and rejoicing in my posterity.
There is one sentence in my patriarchal blessing that has always intrigued me. It says, “You shall see great progress in the work of the Lord; for Zion shall be the head and not the heel.” This phrase has repeatedly come to my mind in recent times as we all have observed the growth and progress of the Lord’s Church throughout the entire world. I can truly say that my patriarchal blessing, though short, has been a guide to me during my entire life. Your patriarchal blessing can do the same for you, if you read it often and chart your course by it. In these challenging times, when you are faced with temptations and pressures to compromise your beliefs, a patriarchal blessing can be the source of great strength that will instill faith in a loving, personal Heavenly Father.
A patriarchal blessing is not having your fortune told. It is a source of guidance as you grow in maturity and spirituality.
As with all blessings, the fulfillment of your patriarchal blessing depends on worthiness and staying close to the Spirit.
Your blessing is sacred and personal. Don’t read it in Church meetings or public gatherings.
Receive your blessing in an attitude of humility and prayer. You might also choose to fast.
The blessing is given to you, but a few family members may be present.
Read your blessing often. Pray for understanding, and it will help you chart your course through life.
Patriarchal blessings are not just for the future. The experience of receiving one is a blessing itself, an experience of learning first-hand how important and wonderful you are in the Lord’s sight. Just the same, you may have some concerns.
I’m not sure if I’m old enough or ready enough for a patriarchal blessing.
Why not talk it over with your parents or your bishop? Ask them if they think you are old enough and if you’re ready.
Can my parents tell me about their own patriarchal blessings?
If your parents have received their blessings, ask if there are portions they would feel comfortable sharing with you. You will probably find you are one of the blessings they were promised. For example, if they were promised righteous posterity, you are an important link in that chain.
What if my parents aren’t members of the Church or don’t support me in Church activities?
Check with your bishop or patriarch—they may have suggestions about how to appropriately include them.
I don’t feel worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
If you feel unworthy, become worthy. Put your life in order. Talk to your parents and to your bishop if necessary. But also remember that we’re all learning and growing. One of the important reasons for obtaining your patriarchal blessing is to receive guidance and strength.
I’m afraid the Lord will reveal what he expects of me, and then I’ll be obligated.
Actually, the Lord has already revealed many things he expects of you: righteousness, obedience, compassion, honesty. You’ve been taught about them all your life. And you’ve already made commitments—at baptism, each time you take the sacrament, when you receive the priesthood. Remember a patriarchal blessing is an expression of the Lord’s love for you personally. More than anything else, it will help you understand through the Spirit your own marvelous potential and some of the great blessings the Lord has in store for you as you keep his commandments.

In a small Argentine town, a man invited two young missionaries into his home—but only to let them know how he felt about their church. He was angry, ill-informed, and emotionally abusive. With a face red with rage, he shook his fists at the two young men.
One elder, in a soft voice, asked if he could share a personal experience. The man, calmed somewhat by the question, reluctantly agreed.
The missionary began: “As I boarded the plane for my mission to Argentina, I was filled with deep sadness. The fact that I would not see my family for two years overwhelmed me, and I began to sob. I cried out in my thoughts, Heavenly Father, are You there? Am I doing the right thing? I feel so alone. Suddenly, comfort, peace, and love filled my soul. I knew all would be well. I knew that God knew me and that what I was doing was right. I knew He would not leave me alone. The Spirit bore witness to my soul of these truths. I will never be the same again.”
The elder stopped, and the Spirit filled the room. Looking into the eyes of the man, the missionary said, “The Spirit that spoke peace to my soul is the same Spirit that will testify to you that the message we have brought you is true.” He continued, “Your part in this process is to humble yourself, desire to know the truth, seek understanding, and ask God for confirmation.”
The man tried to speak, but he was overcome by emotion. Confused, he searched for a logical explanation of what had just happened. Failing, he simply ushered the missionaries to the door. This man may never accept the gospel, but at least once in his life he was touched by the Spirit and taught by true servants of the Lord.

In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told of an experience he’d had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice had told him to take a different route home, one that would add about ten miles to his trip. Although he had been eager to get back home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a rollover accident. A young family had been traveling a long way to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving the car, fell asleep, the car had drifted too close to the side of the road and had rolled off a steep embankment. Brother Johnson was able to help the young family by calling for help on the phone he carried in his car and by administering first-aid to the father, who had some serious cuts and bruises.

“Roberts, we’ve got you surrounded, so don’t try anything. We think the whole structure may be weakened. So just sit still until we can get both of you out safely. You’ve got a charge of kidnapping against you, but things will go easier for you if the girl gets down safely.”
The policeman handed the portable megaphone to Charly’s mother. “Charly, this is your mother. Don’t worry. The police are doing everything possible to get you down. Just don’t panic …” She broke down and began to sob.
Charly, her long, wheat-blonde hair waving as the car of the stalled Ferris wheel rocked gently in the wind, grabbed my hand and smiled. “Roberts, I hope you let this be a lesson to you. You can’t hi-jack a Ferris wheel to Cuba.”
It started innocently enough a year ago in May. Dad and I had jogged our two miles in the morning, and we were eating our nutlike cereal on the patio overlooking the city.
“Sam, you know the new manager I was telling you about?” Dad said as he took a vitamin pill and downed it with the rest of his orange juice. “Transferred here from Boston. He’s finally found a house, and his family moved out here last week. He has a daughter Charlene about your age. Naturally, she doesn’t know anybody here.”
He paused, hoping I would volunteer and not force him to spell it out. “I was wondering if you’d take her out once just as a favor.”
“Well, I’d like to but I’m kind of low on money right now. They don’t pay much in the basement,” I said, referring to his office on the eighth floor and my summer job as a shipping clerk in the basement of one of the large buildings in the city.
“Maybe I could help you out,” Dad said. I was enjoying this.
“I won’t need much. I’ll take her to the museum, and then to the visitor’s center, and then to the drug store for a milk shake.”
“Why don’t you take her to the country club for dinner?”
“Okay. I’ll even get my jeep washed. I sure wish I could get it out of four-wheel drive.”
“Okay. You win; take my car.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Dad.”
A few days later I made my way to her home. It was an ornate building, a little north of the capitol. I spent about ten minutes talking with her parents about the difference in humidity between Boston and Utah. Then finally she came down the stairs.
She was almost as tall as I, with a face that didn’t need make-up. She was skinny and looked like a model for a diet soft drink.
I stood up, remembering a Cary Grant movie I saw once on TV. “Charlene, it is indeed a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine,” she said. As we shook hands she, still smiling, dug her finger nails into my palm.
We drove silently down the interstate to the country club.
“How much did your dad pay you for taking me out?” she asked.
“I was happy to ask you out,” I exaggerated.
“What would you think about turning off the air conditioning? It’s freezing in here.”
“Why don’t you check the blower so it’s not aimed directly at you? It’s very seldom I get to drive a car with air conditioning.”
She sat and glared at the dashboard.
“Tell me, Charlene, how do you find the difference in humidity here as compared to Boston?”
“Don’t call me Charlene.”
“What then?”
“Charly.”
She opened the side window and deliberately adjusted it so the hot air outside was blowing directly at me.
“It’s wasting gas to have the air conditioner on and the window open,” I said.
“You never told me how much your dad is paying you to take me out.”
“Not enough, I think.”
She folded her arms, turning away from me. The periodic brightness as we passed lamp posts showed tears on her face.
“I didn’t mean that. Look, I’m turning off the air conditioner. There’s a Kleenex in the glove compartment.”
“Why would I want one?” she asked.
“Because you’re crying.”
“I’m not crying. My contacts are bothering me.”
“Well, whatever,” I replied. “The Kleenex is still in the jockey box.”
“I’ve got my own,” she said, rummaging through an old leather bag. Eventually she found one crumpled tissue that she smoothed out and used. “Will you take me home please?”
We rode in silence back to her home. I shut off the motor at her curb. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
“It’s no big thing.”
“I did my best to make it a night you’d enjoy.”
“Implying that I didn’t do my best?”
“No, you probably did the best you could,” I answered.
“I’d better go now. It’s getting late,” she said.
“It’s only nine o’clock.”
“Time really flies when I’m with you. I thought it was eleven.”
“You think it’s easy going out with a girl from Boston? My dad and I thought you’d like the country club.”
“Listening to you talk about humidity and watching old golfers slap each other on the back?”
“Well, it’s not my idea of fun either,” I said.
“No?” We stopped halfway up the walk.
“No.”
We walked back to the curb, sat down and talked about things we always wanted to do but could never find anyone else to do them with.
A few minutes later we got back in the car, drove to a park, and bought 30 dollars worth of tickets for the Ferris wheel.
“What’s your name?” Charly asked the attendant as he helped her into the Ferris wheel car.
“Raferty.”
“Mr. Raferty, I’d like you to meet my fiancé. He’s just proposed, and you’re the first one we’ve told.”
“It’s not true,” I said. “I’ve just met her.”
Mr. Raferty was hard of hearing. “Congratulations, kids.”
“Thank you,” Charly smiled. “Sam and I want to ride on your Ferris wheel for a long time. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, I’m not that old,” he said as I gave him several tickets.
We rode and talked. Up over the trees, the laughing children, the crying children, the picnicking families, the merry-go-round, and then back to earth and Mr. Raferty, who gave us a wink as often as he could.
“Sam, alias Utah Kid, maybe we’re going to be friends.”
I took her to church that next Sunday. The following Wednesday she began the missionary lessons. She began to jog with Dad and me in the mornings.
About three weeks later I took her fishing with me at Strawberry Reservoir. We left about four in the morning. When we got there, we rented a boat, rowed out to my favorite spot, and threw out the anchors. I baited the hooks with cheese and marshmallows and tossed my line out.
She curled up and went to sleep.
When she woke up, I had caught four nice trout, the sun had come and driven off the patches of fog, and ten other boats were anchored near us.
She studied the people in the boats around us. They were sitting quietly, watching their lines.
Suddenly she stood up, cleared her throat, and addressed the boaters with a Kissinger-like accent. “I suppose you know why we have asked you here this morning. We’ll dispense with the minutes and move right along.”
The people in the boats looked at her with disbelief.
“Because some of you have been putting marshmallows on your hooks, the Fish and Game Department has asked me to speak today. Clinical reports indicate that the fish in this lake have 53 percent more cavities. Do you know what this means?” she asked.
She waited. Most of the other boaters tried to ignore her. But that was hard to do.
“It means that the state of Utah now must stand the expense of sending a trout through dental school.”
“Charly?” I asked.
“Yes, Utah,” she said meekly.
“Normally we don’t talk between boats. Please sit down.”
I baited her hook and tossed it out. In a few minutes her line began to feed out steadily. I could tell it was going to be big when she set the hook. She followed my directions, and soon I dipped the net into the water, bringing up a four-pound rainbow.
After the fish had been taken care of, she stood up again and addressed the other boaters. “Do you people wish to know how I caught this fish? I used peanut butter on my hook. It sticks very well, it’s nutritious, and it does not cause cavities.”
I pulled in the anchors and began to row out farther.
“We recommend creamy instead of chunky,” she shouted as a parting shot.
“Sam, where are we going?”
“Away.”
“Is the fishing better where we’re going?”
“No.”
“I embarrassed you; is that it? Go ahead and say it.”
“You embarrassed me.” I splashed a little water on her so she wouldn’t think I was mad.
“You’ve got no sense of humor, Utah. Life is for laughing.”
I stopped rowing and threw out the anchors again.
“Sam, how many of those people in the boats do you think were Mormons?”
“Maybe half.”
“A school of Mormons,” she said.
I baited the hooks again and tossed the lines out. “Charly, you haven’t said much about the Church to me, except ‘Very interesting.’”
“Very interesting,” she mocked. “I wanted to be fair, Sam. We New Englanders are noted for our fairness.”
“Yes, I’ve read about the Salem witch trials,” I countered.
“Very good, Sam. Stick with me and I’ll make you a wit.” She opened a sack of oranges and threw me one. “Okay, Sam, I guess I’m ready.”
For a few minutes she concentrated on peeling her orange, her face strangely solemn. “Utah, I’ve read the Book of Mormon.”
“What do you think about it?”
For a long time, she just looked out over the lake. And then in a quiet voice she began, “Humor them along, I said. Take the lessons; go to church. It’s all just part of the tour after all. And then walk away laughing.
“I grew up in Cambridge, Sam. Our next door neighbor wrote a best seller on economics. My mother played bridge with the wife of a man who became one of Kennedy’s advisers. We had as a weekend guest a man who later received a Nobel Prize. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I’ve been exposed to the finest intellectual environment. Then you come to me with your 2 1/2 minute talks. Why not three minutes for crying out loud? I thought I’d spend my life laughing at the world. There was so much to ridicule, so many balloons to pop. It would take a lifetime.”
“Don’t give me a dissertation, Charly. What about the Book of Mormon?”
“It’s true,” she answered simply. “I believe every word. The plates, the angels—all of it. Now I’m afraid of what that implies.”
“Why?”
“When fall comes and I go back to school, and my friends come up giving the cynical smile and asking, ‘Well, did the Mormons get you?’ what do I say?”
“Tell them.”
“They’ll think I’m a fool.”
“What are you interested in, truth or pretense?”
“You ask me that? That’s the same question I’ve been using as a weapon against the world.”
It was too late to be fishing, and the wind was starting to come up. I pulled in the anchor and started rowing for shore.
A week later she was baptized. She was beautiful in white. Her parents didn’t come to the baptism.
“Are you going to ask me to marry you, Sam?” she asked while putting suntan lotion on my shoulders as we soaked in the sun one Saturday at the country club pool.
“You’re not supposed to ask that.”
“Male chauvinist. Why can’t I ask it? Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t be so insistent, Sam. You’ve got to give me time. I’ll have to think it over and let you know. So don’t rush me, okay?”
I ignored her and lay back down on the warm sun deck.
“Sam, are you awake? You’re going to get a sunburn.”
“I’m awake,” I answered sluggishly.
“Sam, I’ve thought it over. I accept. You’re a lucky man.”
I sat up and put a towel on my sore shoulders.
She leaned over like she was going to kiss me, but instead slapped me on my sunburn. “Race you to the diving board!”
She beat me there. We took turns diving. She was very good. While we were waiting our turn, she punched me on the chin in slow motion. “Sam, you son of a gun, asking me to marry you when we’ve only known each other part of a summer. You’ve got some nerve, Utah.”
She stood on the board and did a perfect swan dive. I just dived off.
“Why the joke about marriage?” I asked.
“Who said I’m joking?”
She stood up at the board again. She addressed the line of swimmers waiting to dive. “For this next dive, I must have silence so that I may concentrate,” she announced dramatically with a slightly European accent. “This dive is one that my family has passed down from generation to generation. If you will be quiet, then I will do it for you today.”
A hush fell over the swimmers. She surveyed the pool. A waiter carrying food to a lounging couple stopped to wait. “So, I will do it.” She slowly approached the middle of the board, stopped, put her arms out, seeming to be reaching for psychological strength. Then, summoning courage, she raced to the edge of the board, jumped in the air, tucked in her knees, and did a cannonball.
Two or three times a week we went back to the Ferris wheel.
Near the end of August we were walking around a shopping center on a Saturday afternoon. We were in a large discount department store. We passed the maternity clothes.
“How many children do you want, Sam?”
“At least six.”
“So many? How come? Religious reasons?”
“That’s right.”
“Six kids. That’s a bunch.”
“They come one at a time. That way you can make all your mistakes on the first one.”
“Careful, fella, I was the first one,” she warned.
A while later we walked by the toy department and a row of dolls. She picked up six, but one fell down. “I can’t get six, Sam.” She put all but one of the dolls back. “I’ll be a good mother, Sam. When I was little I had a doll and she was no problem at all. I just said, ‘Go to bed and sleep,’ and she did. So six will be nothing.”
“You know, Charly, I’ve never really asked you to marry me.”
“I noticed that. Yes, sir, I have noticed that.”
We got what she needed, but on the way out I remembered I needed to get a coupling for our water hose. Since she was not really interested, we agreed to separate and then meet later. She suggested the jewelry counter.
I found the hardware section, found the coupling, and went back to the jewelry counter. She wasn’t there. I waited for five minutes and then started walking around to see if I could find her.
After 15 minutes of looking, I heard a strangely familiar voice over the P.A. system. “Sam, Sammy, you hear me? This is Mommy. The nice men let me talk to you on the big radio. Sammy wherever you are in this big store, stop and listen to Mommy.”
I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me.
“Sammy, if you can hear me, listen carefully. Remember when Mommy bought you a big bag of popcorn last week. Sam, go to the popcorn machine, and Mommy will be there. Do you understand? The popcorn place. Mommy will get you a big bag of popcorn. Mommy loves you, Sam.”
A man standing next to me grabbed a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Poor little guy,” he muttered to himself.
I walked over to the popcorn machine. There was Charly with a bag of popcorn in her hand.
I grabbed her arm and quickly escorted her out of the store.
“Sam, do you want some popcorn?” she asked. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“Get in the car.”
“I was a bad girl.”
“Why don’t you grow up, Charly? You think the world was made for your amusement?”
“Don’t preach to me, Sam. I’m sorry. Okay?”
I should have waited until I got control before I said anything, but I didn’t.
She didn’t defend herself but just sat there, holding that ridiculous bag of popcorn in her lap.
Then I said the thing that I shouldn’t have. “You’ve been talking about marriage. Well, I’m not ready for marriage and especially not to someone who hasn’t grown up yet.” I drove her home, and she opened the door by herself and ran up the walk alone to the door.
I sat and watched her go.
I suppose I figured I’d let her stew for a couple of days and then call her up and tell her she was forgiven. But on Monday when I called, her mother said that she’d decided to go back to Massachusetts early for school. She’d left that morning. Her mother told me that Charly didn’t want me to know where she was going, didn’t want me to write or call, and didn’t want to see me again.
After a week of long distance phone calls I was finally able to get her address. When I phoned, she hung up. I wrote to her several times. But she never answered. One day I got a large envelope with all my letters inside. None of them had been opened.
Then I quit my job and went back to school.
I tried to get in touch with her during Christmas vacation, but her parents went back to see her so she wasn’t in town.
In June I was back in town. My dad got me a job on the first floor of the same building, in line with additional schooling, I guess.
One day at work I got a phone call from my dad who now was on the ninth floor. “She’s back in town with a boy named Mark. I thought you might want to know.”
That night I drove by her house. There was a small sports car with Massachusetts license plates parked in the driveway. I drove around her block about 20 times trying to formulate a plan. Nothing came to mind, so I finally just parked and walked up to the door.
They were in the backyard. The door was open and I went in. I could see Charly through the kitchen window, standing next to a Harvard type gesturing with a pipe in one hand.
“I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to change.” Charly left him, walked into the kitchen, and into the hall.
She saw me and stopped. “Sam?”
“Hi, Charly.”
“Are you real? For a minute there I thought you were the ghost of boyfriends past.”
“My dad told me you were back. They say it’s serious when she brings the guy home to meet the parents. Are you engaged?”
“I could be.”
“Do you love him?”
“You’re not supposed to ask that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Would you like to meet Mark? He’s discovered a lot of investment opportunities right here in Utah. Maybe you two could work out a partnership.”
“No, I’d better go.” I started for the door.
Charly walked out with me. “Whatever happened to all those tickets we got for the Ferris wheel?”
“I still have them.”
“I thought you’d use them for your other dates.”
“No one else would understand.”
“Oh.”
We walked out to the jeep. “Did you ever get this thing out of four-wheel drive?” Charly asked.
“Sort of. Now I can’t get it into four-wheel drive.” We both smiled faintly.
“Why didn’t you answer my letters?” I asked.
“I guess I felt like I’d made a fool of myself and didn’t want to be reminded.”
I walked over to the right-hand side of the jeep, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out several faded, bent tickets.
“There are still a few left,” I said, walking back to her.
“I wonder if they’re still good,” she said. Then, so I wouldn’t misunderstand, she quickly added, “I mean, you should find someone else to use them with.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. I’ll just get rid of them,” I said, ripping one of them up, letting the pieces flutter to the ground.
“Don’t,” she said, grabbing the others.
Our eyes met.
“Charly, couldn’t we go somewhere and talk? Just to make sure things are the way we want them.”
“I can’t. It’s too late.”
“Maybe there’s nothing left between us, Charly. I don’t know. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if. If there’s nothing left, give me the piece of mind of knowing that.”
“What do I tell Mark?”
“Just leave a note saying you’re going for a ride, and you’ll explain when you get back.”
She went in the house and in a minute was back again.
We drove to the park, gave Mr. Raferty the rest of the tickets, and got in the Ferris wheel car.
“I was listening to Mark while I wrote the note. I think he just sold my dad an apartment building in Newton.”
“Then the trip out here won’t be a complete waste,” I said.
“Mark will someday be governor of Massachusetts. I’m sure of it.”
“He has a Word of Wisdom problem.”
“You’re always classifying people, aren’t you? Do all Mormons do that?”
“You’re a Mormon, remember?”
“You won’t believe this, but I have been going to Church. And I have asked Mark about taking the lessons. He thought that was very funny.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I don’t know. I have a high regard for him.”
“That sounds pretty weak to me. You could say that about your milkman.”
“Don’t push me, Sam.”
“I’m just asking you to wait before you do anything dumb like getting engaged to him.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, he can’t take you to the temple. A marriage with him would have a built-in divorce clause. And I can’t forget you. Maybe at first you loved me more than I loved you. But I’ve had a year to catch up. Give me a chance.”
She started going through her old leather bag. “You never can find anything when you need it. I put Kleenex in here, and it’s there for months, but the minute I want it, it’s gone.”
“I have a clean handkerchief,” I volunteered.
She took it, and wiped her eyes. “My mother ordered a cake for a garden party we are going to have tomorrow for Mark. She knows I haven’t said yes to Mark yet, but the cake looks a lot like a wedding cake. She’s trying to talk me into making an announcement at the party. You know, she isn’t really that fond of you. What do we do about that?”
“Cake will freeze for months. Put it in the freezer until you decide.”
“What about Mark?”
“I don’t think you should freeze him. It’s up to you, though.”
Just then we noticed somebody arguing with Mr. Raferty. Charly scrunched down in her seat, but Mark had already seen her.
“I want this thing stopped! He’s kidnapped her!”
“I’m not stopping anything until their ride’s up. They’ve got ten more rides coming, and that’s what they’re going to get.”
Mark stormed away, walked to a pay phone, and made two phone calls.
“Charly, what did your note say?”
“I think it was, ‘Am being taken for a ride. Will explain later.’ Is that bad?”
“Not usually. But Mark thinks you’ve been kidnapped. He probably found the torn up Ferris wheel ticket and came here first.”
Mark stormed back to the Ferris wheel and began arguing with Mr. Raferty.
On our way down, Charly started to explain. But Mark lunged for me, missed, didn’t get away soon enough, and was struck on the shoulder by part of the frame. The blow threw him against Mr. Raferty. Raferty and Mark fell down and in the process broke off the speed control lever.
We started going very fast. I put my arms around Charly and held her close to me.
Raferty was knocked unconscious. Mark got up, looked around, grabbed a long pole, and crammed the pole into the gear mechanism. The pole jerked out of his hand, throwing him against the ground. Suddenly the pulley for the drive mechanism snapped, and the Ferris wheel slowed down and stopped.
A few minutes later the police arrived, apparently called by Mark from a pay phone earlier. A police ambulance took away Mark and Mr. Raferty, unconscious.
Then Charly’s mother and dad arrived.
Charly stood up to yell that everything was okay, but the motion caused one of the other cars to break loose and fall to the ground.
That was when the police told us not to move around and to be quiet.
“Roberts, I want you to throw down the weapon you used against the Ferris wheel operator and this girl’s boyfriend. I don’t want you harming the girl.”
“No, I don’t ever want to do that,” I said to Charly.
“Roberts, you’ve already got a charge of kidnapping against you. Don’t make it worse. Throw down the weapon.”
“Sam, you’re not cooperating.”
“I don’t have a weapon.”
“Let’s see if I can help.” She opened her bag, and we sifted through the stuff she carried in it. Finally we found a pair of scissors, which we tossed down. It seemed to please everybody.
In a few minutes a fire truck with a ladder pulled close to the Ferris wheel. “Miss, just reach slowly and grab hold. I’ll have you down in no time,” the fireman on the extended ladder told Charly.
“If I jumped, I’d be down in no time. Let’s go very slowly. See you, Sam.”
In a minute I was back down on the ground also. After Charly talked to the police and after we called the hospital and had Mr. Raferty and Mark explain things, they undid the handcuffs.
On our way to the hospital, Charly explained to her parents that she probably would get engaged, but not at the party the next day, and maybe not to Mark.
“But what about the cake?” her mother asked.
“Freeze it,” Charly and I answered.
That’s just what we did.

Because of the drought in the area, sometimes there wasn’t any water in the village we were serving in as missionaries.
Since the taps were dry on Sunday, my companion and I had to bring a bottle of water from our apartment for the sacrament.
Before preparing the sacrament, I prayed that the Spirit would be present as I prepared these emblems and throughout sacrament meeting. After placing the cups in the tray, I unscrewed the bottle’s lid to begin to fill them. Normally, we would just sweep the tray underneath the steady stream of water from a tap, filling multiple cups at a time. But this time our water was limited, so I had to change the way I filled the cups. I began to fill each cup one by one, doing my best to make sure there was enough in each individual cup. The process took longer and was more tedious, but I was taught a lesson.
When Jesus Christ suffered for our sins, He felt our pains and sins on a very individual and personal basis. He came to understand, know, and love each of us personally. He paid the price for the weaknesses and sins of each one of us, and He did this so we can come to understand, know, love, and even become like Him.
I felt so much joy right there in the back room of the chapel, and I feel it every time I think of Jesus Christ’s love for me.
Elder Brigham Jewkes, South Africa Durban Mission

One Saturday night when I was about eleven, many of Mother’s relatives came from out of town to have dinner with us. Such visits were rare, so she spent the whole day getting the dinner ready. She prepared a pot roast and all the vegetables to go with it, mashed potatoes and gravy, salads, hot rolls, and dessert. She cooked all day, and soon the dirty dishes started stacking up.
After dinner, everyone brought the leftover food to the kitchen, then went into the living room and began to visit. I remember going back to the kitchen, thinking, Mother works all week long, and now she’ll have to do the dishes late at night after everyone leaves. Then I thought, I’ll do the dishes for her.
In those days, we didn’t have a dishwasher; the dishwasher was either me or someone else. I filled up the sink and started washing. I stood there for three hours, washing every dish—and I learned that when dishes or pans are dirty, it’s best to clean them immediately, before the food hardens!
Finally I finished drying the last dish, wiping off all the counters, and scrubbing the floor. I heard the relatives walking out onto the porch, and I heard Mother bidding them good-bye.
The kitchen door swung open, and Mother entered. She stopped and looked around and then looked at me. I cannot describe the look on her face. I think that at first it was shock, then appreciation, and then I think it was more than that. It was a feeling of love and pride, and of something I couldn’t measure. I think you understand. There was a light in her eyes. I made the decision then that I would like to put that kind of light into people’s faces.
Mother hugged and thanked me, and I went to bed contented and happy, knowing that she wouldn’t have to stand there doing dishes until two o’clock the next morning.

While in the hospital, Peter had a lot of time to think about what to do. He still had a long, painful time ahead of him before he could be released from the hospital. It was during this time that several good friends helped him learn about setting goals and controlling attitude. One in particular was from his ward, Brother Lawrence Oburn. He came to see Peter often and was always encouraging him to set a goal. At first, Peter didn’t want to try. Brother Oburn insisted by saying, “It’s what is on the inside that counts, not the outside.”
I remember how angry I got. I said very sarcastically “Okay, why don’t you get burned and you come here.” I could hear him crying although it was muffled by the bandages around my head. As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t because he had done so much for me. He said, “Peter, if I could, I would.” This was when I realized that this man truly loved me, like a son. That was when I determined to do everything he asked.
They decided on a goal. Peter would count the stitches he had during each surgery. The doctors and nurses asked to be allowed to stop counting just before they reached 2,000.
Peter set another goal—to count his shots. He quit counting at 1,252. He set a third goal—to be the most enthusiastic patient in the hospital. Even though he was often angry at the world, Peter tried to keep his goal. When he left the hospital, the staff presented him with a plaque naming him the most enthusiastic patient in their care.

A big forward with biceps the size of pot roasts skates over the blue line and fades away from us. Without slowing he lets rip a 20-foot wrist shot at the goal, or more precisely at Scott Tollestrup, the poor guy in net.
The puck meets Scott’s face mask with a slap, and he sits down hard on the ice, shaking his head.
“That happens when you play goal,” says Scott’s dad, Barry.
Scott takes a break from practice and skates over. He pushes up his helmet. Behind him the rink resounds with the heavy echo of voices. All around figures are moving, sticks and skates zigzagging on the ice. “You get hit; you shake it off,” Scott says, and grins.
His mother folds her arms and rolls her eyes. “People say hockey goalies have rocks in their heads,” she says. I like this family already. They are real people.
The fact that Scott, 14, would allow burly hockey players to fire 90-mile-an-hour pucks at him may be beyond comprehension for most of us. But to Scott, hockey is part of him. The shots he faces in a game are like the challenges of life. He realizes he can’t be perfect, get a handle on everything, but he’s getting better all the time.
Almost every boy in Canada has batted around a hockey puck at least once, and most have dreamed of playing professional hockey. Scott is no exception. Growing up in this hockey-crazed town of Lethbridge, Alberta, Scott longed to be the last defense on the ice, 15,000 fans watching as he shut out the Edmonton Oilers, taking MVP honors in the Stanley Cup finals.
Still, the odds are against him ever making it to the pros, so he’s enjoying the experiences along the way. He’s especially proud of representing Southern Alberta at a tournament in Vancouver last year. He played well enough to be selected a Canadian All-Star.
But being an all-star can go to your head. Every now and then Scott has to remind himself what’s really important.
“Once you put the hockey jacket on it’s instant popularity,” he says after practice. Scott’s with his older brother, Troy. They sit cross-legged in their basement, trading hockey cards and playing video hockey. “Some of the guys think they’re pretty hot. Once in a while I might join them and put somebody down—let it go to my head. When I put somebody down I always end up thinking about my brother, Troy.”
Troy, 17, has had a slight motor-skills problem and learning disorder since birth. It’s not serious enough to affect his life much, but it does make him a little different from the other kids. “When he was in elementary school he got picked on a lot,” adds Scott. “I think about that and stop. I try to get the others to stop, too.”
Not to be outdone, Troy starts talking about something he intends to do for Scott. He’s planning on a mission. One of the main reasons is to be an example to his younger brother.
“It’s very important I go on a mission,” says Troy. “Scott probably feels if I don’t go, he won’t have to.” I notice a sideways glance he gives his brother. It’s obvious they’ve had this conversation before.
“I see a mission,” Scott counters. “I hope to go. I want to keep the Holy Ghost with me and that’s a good way. If you’re fooling around with your friends you lose the Spirit, but if you pray and think about it hard, it’ll come back.”
Barry and Mary wander down to join their boys in the basement. Dad picks a black Pittsburgh Pirates cap off the floor.
“We have to pry this hat off Scott’s head,” Barry tells me. Scott grabs the hat and pulls it on. His blond hair disappears and his ears look bigger—I decide not to mention that. “He’s listed as 163 pounds on the team roster, but he’s really only 162. The hat.” Barry points to his head. Scott ignores him.
A son in the National Hockey League—that’s a dream a dad can get excited about. Barry goes to all of Scott’s practices, every game. He admits he had to control his enthusiasm.
“The first few years I pushed him,” Barry says, “but I’ve learned you can’t be too critical or push too hard.”
It took some time for Scott and his dad to find a good mix, but the relationship they have now seems to help them both. For Barry, the payoff is in the time with his son. While Scott, Troy, and their mom are very active in the Church, Barry is not. So he counts on the hockey tie to bring them close.
According to Mary, the boys’ mom, “When Scott’s in a game, he’ll look up into the stands at his dad. They have a silent message system. When Scott makes a good play he’ll look up and know his dad’s happy, and not too happy if he makes a mistake.”
And Dad has good things to say about Scott. He tells about the time Scott tried out for Bantam hockey. One of the other goalies was cut. “Some of the kids started giving him a hard time,” adds Barry. The coach was moments away from having a bad situation on his hands when Scott stood up for the goalie and got the players to settle down. “Scott knows what it’s like to be cut. But I think it’s more than that, something you can’t teach. He tries to care about other people’s feelings.”
Perhaps Scott has learned there is always somebody watching. On the rink it may be a scout or a future coach. In life it could be anybody.
“When Scott played on the Southern Alberta Select Team,” says Mary, “the coach told the team they needed to drink coffee to get going for the games. Scott and another LDS player wouldn’t.”
Scott smiles. “The funny thing was all the other kids ordered coffee, but they ordered caffeine free.”
Scott starts pulling out the odd collection of pads and equipment he needs for an afternoon game in Red Bluff. It’s a typical Saturday with typical commitments to hockey. But while the game does take up a good part of Scott’s life, he wants to be a balanced person.
He stops organizing his hockey gear to show me the saxophone and guitar he likes to play. He says he’d take me for a ride on his motorbike but it’s seized up. And he talks about seminary as if it’s the greatest invention since face masks for goalies. The gospel, he’s discovered, is important in being a well-rounded young man.
“Seminary has opened a lot of doors for me. There’s so much to know,” says Scott. “My seminary teacher is really good. With him it’s easy to understand the scriptures. The Millennium and the Second Coming are really interesting. Reading the scriptures is like reading a story—not a fairy tale, but about a different time. It could be a perfect movie, if you shorten it up a bit.”
But in trying for balance, Scott has discovered he needs to set priorities. A year or so ago, he was playing several sports, going to school and seminary, taking music lessons, spending time with friends. “I was thinking of quitting hockey,” he says. “I wasn’t happy, and it took up so much of my time. I realized if I wanted to play hockey I had to give up some of the other stuff.” He decided to put aside other sports and his guitar for a while. The NHL, the crowds, the excitement—it’s a hard dream to let die.
But other goals are approaching fast. A mission, marriage, and all the decisions in living the gospel are almost here. Just talking to Scott you get the feeling he’ll make the right choices when he needs to. You hope hockey will help him get where he wants to go, but that it will be a part and not the whole.
The last word on Scott is saved for his coach, Kirby Nishikawa. Something Kirby said at practice—something you may have already guessed about Scott. “He’s an all-around great guy to work with. He has a great work ethic and is a good example to the other players. What he does with his talent is all up to him.”
But before I can start wondering where they will put the statue of “Scott Tollestrup—The Perfect Young Man,” Coach Nishikawa sees our hero goofing off at the other end of the ice and bellows, “Tollestrup! Get over here!”
It’s a command that has echoed through this arena more than once, Scott’s mom admits.
Scott takes his place in goal. In front of him a line of players stands waiting to challenge. By now Scott knows he can’t be perfect or get a handle on everything. But remember, this is one goalie who is getting better all the time.

Gracie felt like she had been waiting in line at the fabric store forever! She was ready to go home and play with her toys. Then she saw a girl in line in front of her. The girl looked a little older than Gracie. She had braces on her legs and used crutches to help her stand. She turned and smiled. Gracie smiled back.
As they were leaving, Gracie was surprised when Mom reached out to stop the other mom.
“Excuse me,” Mom said, “Could I ask why your daughter is using crutches?”
Spina bifida is a problem with the way a baby’s spinal cord grows before birth. It can cause problems with legs, feet, or hips.
The other mom smiled. “This is Saylor, and she has spina bifida.”
Gracie’s eyes opened wide as she looked at Saylor. “This is Gracie, and she has spina bifida too,” Mom said.
Saylor’s mom smiled at Gracie. “Do you have an owie on your back?”
Gracie nodded. She had a long scar on her back from a surgery she’d had right after she was born.
The two moms started talking. Gracie heard words like surgery and treatments. Gracie grinned at Saylor and said hi. Gracie liked Saylor right away. She learned that Saylor was nine, and she was nice. Gracie knew they would be great friends.
Finally they all said goodbye to each other. Gracie heard their moms make plans to meet again soon. She could hardly wait!
Back in the car, Mom said, “You know the surgery you’re going to have soon? Well, Saylor had that surgery, and she’s doing great! I felt the Holy Ghost tell me I should talk to her mom, and I’m glad I did.”
“Me too!” Gracie said.
Gracie loved playing with Saylor. Even though Gracie was five, she and Saylor had lots to talk about. And Mom and Dad talked with Saylor’s parents a lot too—mostly about the big surgery.
Thinking about the surgery made Gracie feel scared. She thought about the long scar on her back. She couldn’t remember that surgery, but she would remember this one. She hoped it would make her better. Saylor had told her that everything would be OK.
A few weeks later, Gracie went to the hospital to get ready for the surgery. The halls of the hospital were bright and happy. There were paintings of blue whales and other fun pictures on the walls. Gracie met with doctors and nurses who explained the surgery to her. She practiced moving the bed up and down and played with the remote for her little TV. They told her she could order chocolate milk every day! Maybe the surgery wouldn’t be so bad.
When Gracie got home, she made a little hospital bed with her pillow and a laundry basket. She got a tray of snacks and pretended she was at the hospital. It would be fun. She tried not to think about the surgery.
A few days before surgery, Gracie got a card from Saylor. She had drawn a picture of Gracie with Saylor and Heavenly Father and Jesus. It said, “Remember that Heavenly Father will make you brave.”
Gracie hugged her card tight. Saylor helped her be brave. Gracie knew Heavenly Father could help her be brave for the surgery too.

“The Mapleton Utah North Stake decided to focus entirely on virtue at their stake youth fireside. Young men and women, including their parents, were asked to complete the four new value experiences and the value project of reading the Book of Mormon by this November.

“At the end of the young men’s discussion, each young man was given a gold tie to wear. Each young woman was presented with a beautiful gold necklace made especially for them by the stake Young Women presidency. Hopefully, these gifts will remind each young man and young woman of their renewed commitment to virtue.

“A great moment in the fireside came as the young women returned to the chapel after the separate sessions. The young men and parents had already returned from each of their sessions. The chapel was full of young men in new gold ties literally rising to the challenge by standing as a sign of respect as the young women of the stake walked in.”
—Casey Packard Allen

It is also very important for you to obey your parents. I had an experience that taught me the importance of obedience. I love horses, and I love to train them to jump. As a young man, I was invited to compete in the Pan-American Games, which are something like the Olympic Games for the countries of North, Central, and South America. For two years, I worked very hard to train for this competition. Then one day not long before the games, I disobeyed my coach. I had just finished my training session, and he had told me that it was time to stop. But I decided to make a few more jumps. As I did, I fell with my horse and was seriously injured. After all my hard work, I was not able to take part in the competition. We must all learn to be obedient to our trainers—our parents, our leaders, and our teachers. They know how to help us avoid dangers and problems.

When I was 15, my family and I took a vacation from our home in Arizona to the central United States. We drove through many states, including Kansas, Texas, Arkansas, Missouri, and Illinois.
Our vacation went well. We learned to enjoy each other’s company during the long van rides from place to place.
As we pulled into a restaurant one evening, we were all anxious to grab a bite to eat. As we got out of our van, I suddenly had a silent but powerful impression that told me to look at the back tire on our van. I started to walk toward the restaurant, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I looked back over my shoulder and then stopped. The impression came to my mind: “Check the back tire.” It was so forceful I couldn’t ignore it.
I approached the rear of the van and heard a hissing sound. Sure enough, our right rear tire had a leak and was quickly going flat. I ran to get my dad, who had already gone into the restaurant with the rest of the family.
My father took the van down the road to a gas station before the tire went completely flat. Since the tire wasn’t damaged, the repair was inexpensive and quick. And we were able to fix the flat just minutes before the service station closed for the night. I don’t know what would have happened if I had ignored the prompting. But I do know that because I responded, we were able to continue our trip safely and conveniently.
Since that incident, I’m always reassured of the power of the Holy Ghost and how truly blessed we are as members of the Church to have that special line of communication. I am grateful for that experience, for it will stay with me, forever reminding me that our Father in Heaven loves, cares, and watches out for all of His children.

I looked at them as they finished their story; their faces shone with happiness. In what I thought would be a closing question, I asked in halting Spanish what they were now doing in the Church. Among them were a bishop, a Sunday School superintendent, another bishop, an executive secretary, and a mission presidency counselor.
I turned to the father, Manuel, and asked what he was doing. He replied that he was serving as a counselor in a bishopric. I was ready to finish with one last item when one of the brothers added that the bishop to whom their father was serving as a counselor was one of their brothers.
Then came one of the choice moments of my interviewing life. Turning to the bishop son, Víctor, I asked, “How does it feel to have your father as your counselor?”
With poignancy, he gently answered, “I have great love for my father. He has always counseled me well in my life. He has been an example to me. He has been my inspiration. When I have had difficulties in my life he has helped me. Who else could I ask to counsel me but my father?”
Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I slowly turned to Manuel: “How do you feel about serving your son as a counselor?”
In the great dignity natural to the Spanish tongue, Manuel Cerda softly, slowly, and in an emotionally quivering voice said, “I have great love for my sons. It is an honor to counsel them. It is an honor to advise others to listen to them. I believe I feel something like God the Father felt when he said, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye him.’ (Matt. 17:5.) I understand well love between father and son.”
I turned and went around the circle again. “What,” I asked, “brought about this family love?”
The father, Manuel Cerda summed up the answers of the others—“It was the gospel that changed our home. It taught us to see each other as eternal friends. It has taught me affection and love. It has taught me to esteem my children. We fight against anything that seeks to divide us, that affects our esteem for each other. The truth has changed our lives.”

One day I was walking through the mall when I noticed two guys, probably still in high school, heading in my direction and pointing to girls. They would look at them for a few seconds and then state a number between 1 and 10. I realized they were ranking them by their looks! I walked a little faster so they wouldn’t have time to rank me, but when they walked by, they pointed to me and said, “Uh, zero.” Then they were off. I felt something inside me go empty. I was so hurt. I couldn’t believe that someone would actually do something like that. I hurried to my car so I wouldn’t have to cry out in the open. Once inside my car, I cried for help in a silent prayer asking, “Lord, how do I get past this?”
In that moment, a scripture came into my head—1 Samuel 16:7. “The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” I was reminded that the Lord knows who I am. Zero is just a number those young men were using as a rude label.
I was comforted, and the emptiness I felt was filled with the love of God. Heavenly Father loves each of His children. There is not any scale big enough to measure the love He has for His children; it is worth so much more than the judgments of men.

For example, Roy D. Atkin noticed a number of his classmates drop out after the first year of dental school as the classes became more competitive.
He said, “Some students decided that the way to succeed was by cheating. …
“… But I knew I couldn’t cheat. I wanted to be right with God even more than I wanted to become a dentist.”
During his third year, Roy was offered a copy of an upcoming test. He had the chance to have the test questions ahead of time, but he declined. When the corrected tests were returned, his score was low compared to the high class average.
“Roy,” his professor said, “you usually do well on tests. What happened?”
“Sir,” he said, “on the next exam, if you give a test that you have never given before, I believe you will find that I do very well.”
When the next test was handed out, there were audible groans. It was a test the teacher had never given before. When the graded tests were handed back, Roy had received one of the highest grades in the class. From then on, all the tests were new.1

One cloudy day when she was fourteen, Anna raced off to school in her usual hurry, forgetting her umbrella. After school that day it began to rain. At the gate Anna fell and sprained her ankle. Doctors in those days didn’t have the benefit of X-ray machines, and sometimes mistakes were made in the treatment of bones and ligaments. For the rest of her life Anna was crippled. At times she could walk a little, but much of the time she was an invalid.

In addition to personal growth, the clowns have been rewarded for their hard work with wonderful memories. “The first time we visited the hospital, we were all scared to death. We weren’t sure how we were going to work with crippled children. But they really responded, and it was a wonderful experience. When we finished we asked the nurse if there were any children who hadn’t been able to come.
“She took us to the room of a boy who had literally had his face ripped off in a car wreck. It looked like his face had been run through a meat grinder. He was so self-conscious that he wouldn’t come out of his room.
“So we were very careful. We walked in and said ‘Hi, we missed you. We wanted to give you a special balloon.’ At first he was really timid. But then he started to respond. And I was so proud of the clowns. They didn’t look away from him. They looked right at him and let him know that they cared about him.
“By the time they were finished, that boy was talking. He was friendly. He knew that he was somebody important, and that there were three or four clowns in that room who cared about him. He told us about his upcoming surgery, and we all wished him the best. It was one of the most giving experiences of our lives.”