Gospel Story Finder

With her permission, I would like to share part of a sweet letter I received from Sister Linda Seamon of the Flagstaff Arizona Stake.

“We are a young family. My husband and I are 33. We have three small children. This is a busy ‘family time’ for us in our lives. For months, Diana, our ward genealogy person, would call us on a regular basis to ask if there was anything she could do to help us get started on our family history.

“We of course thanked her for the call, but firmly replied that ‘Aunt Leona, Cousin Nellie, and Aunt Bertha have done all there is to do on our families.’ Then, intrigued by an article in the Ensign about the new 8½-by-11 forms for family history, I mentioned this to Diana and a week later she was at my door with the forms! I took a look and thought how neat it would be to fill in the forms with our own names in the blanks. This simple experience of a loving, persistent family history representative was what got us started.

“We both come from Mormon families several generations back. We thought the ordinance work for our ancestors had been completed. We were wrong! In the short months we have been collecting copies of family group records, we have had so many experiences that confirmed to us the Lord’s hand in this work: 44 baptisms, 45 endowments, 29 children sealed to parents, 16 marriage sealings. All of these from records that were supposedly ‘all done.’

“Words cannot express the joy we have felt in the temple performing ordinances for our ancestors. Family relationships, some estranged since childhood, have been healed. Our extended families have also become involved. We have sent names to five different temples so that we could be united in helping to complete the temple work.

“We believe that it takes just one temple experience for one’s ancestors to convince a person of the importance of this work. It is possible to become involved in this exciting work at any age. We’re committed to it!”

Stranded in an airport because of bad weather, a young mother and her two-year-old daughter had been waiting in long lines for hours trying to get a flight home. The child was tired and fussy, but the mother, who was pregnant and at risk of miscarriage, did not pick her up. A doctor had advised the mother to avoid lifting the two-year-old unless absolutely necessary. The woman overheard disapproving comments from people around her as she used her foot to slide her crying daughter along in the line. Nobody offered to help. But then, the woman later recalled, “someone came towards us and with a kindly smile said, ‘Is there something I could do to help you?’ With a grateful sigh I accepted his offer. He lifted my sobbing little daughter from the cold floor and lovingly held her to him while he patted her gently on the back. He asked if she could chew a piece of gum. When she was settled down, he carried her with him and said something kindly to the others in the line ahead of me, about how I needed their help. They seemed to agree and then he went up to the ticket counter [at the front of the line] and made arrangements with the clerk for me to be put on a flight leaving shortly. He walked with us to a bench, where we chatted a moment, until he was assured that I would be fine. He went on his way. About a week later I saw a picture of Apostle Spencer W. Kimball and recognized him as the stranger in the airport.”17

I don’t know how Randy made it into the 10th grade, but there he was the next year when we registered.
Sam Boushelle had moved to town that summer. I’d met him at church the Sunday before classes started, and we’d talked about the ward and girls and sports. But I completely forgot to warn him about Randy Herrman. Sure enough, when I got to English class on Monday morning, there was Sam, and right behind him was Randy, looking smug with a fresh year and a fresh victim in front of him.
I flopped into the desk in front of Sam and tried to explain the predicament he was in. Sam looked at me with a suspicious frown, and then turned around to face Randy. Sam nodded slightly and looked back at me.
“Seems like a nice enough guy,” Sam said.
“Just wait.”
And sure enough, I heard Randy’s whisper during the first pop quiz about a week later.
For a minute, Sam ignored the voice behind him. Then he tore a sheet of paper out of his notebook and began writing furiously. Randy waited for a second and then tried the ear-flipping thing, but Sam just shook his head and laughed and kept scribbling. Finally Sam stopped writing, folded the paper up and handed it back to Randy. Then he went back to his work.
Randy read the note and his faced turned the color of a thundercloud. He crumpled the note up, thought about throwing it, but then stuffed it into his shirt pocket. It was obvious that Randy was mad, but he didn’t pester Sam anymore.
After class I pulled my backpack on and stood up.
“You coming?” I asked my friend.
“No, you go on. I need to talk to Randy.”
I looked back at the little, dark figure of Randy Herrman, leaning back in his desk and resting his head on the back of his chair. He had his eyes closed, like he was having a nice dream and didn’t want to wake up. He was probably wondering where he could dispose of Sam’s body.
“Your funeral,” I said softly.
I didn’t see Sam again until lunch. We met near the pop machines and then went through the cafeteria line, piling our plates high with rubbery spaghetti and red sauce. We paid and found seats as close to the cool kids as we dared.
“So, you’re still alive,” I asked finally. I was dying to know what had happened.
“Yep,” said Sam. He started twirling his fork in the spaghetti.
“Well?”
Sam smiled and moved his fork to a new spot on the plate. “I think he just needs a little help.”
“I’d say.”
“No, I mean he needs a little help with schoolwork.”
I was skeptical. “So what did your note say?”
“Nothing much. I just told him I couldn’t help him during a test. But I did offer to work with him after school.”
I laughed. “He’ll work you over after school.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. I told him that if we studied together a couple of times a week, he could most likely get good grades on his own.”
“I bet he jumped at that,” I said, with a good dose of sarcasm.
Sam pinched his chin. “Ah, he complained for a while. But eventually he agreed to give it a try. He says nobody’s ever offered to help him before.”
I swallowed with guilt.
“You’re putting me on,” I said. I was incredulous.
“No, he’s actually interested,” added Sam. “We’re meeting tonight at my place to study.”
Sam twirled his fork until he had a mass of pasta the size of a pool ball. Then he forced it in his mouth. “He wants to,” he said, between chews, “get into the Air Force,” another chew, “after school.”
“Huh?”
“And he can’t get in without good grades.”
I was floored. All the time I’d been afraid and avoiding Randy Herrman, he’d been searching for help. I’d helped him cheat. Darren had ignored him. But Sam had taken a chance and found a way to serve his brother.
“I feel like a … I feel like a,” I couldn’t find the word.
“Why? You didn’t know what Randy needed?” said Sam.
“No, and I didn’t bother to find out.”
Sam smiled and shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Come over tonight and we’ll both get to know Randy.”
After lunch, I walked back to class with a weird mix of feelings running through me. For the first time in years I wasn’t afraid of running into Randy. That was a relief, I reasoned. But I couldn’t believe how blind I’d been. It’d taken Sam only seconds to do what I should have done years ago.
I closed my locker and told myself I wasn’t going to let that happen again.
I walked to biology. Under the glowing fluorescent lamps and amid the moving mass of 10th-grade students, I told myself I was ready to begin again.
I can do well here, I thought.
I just need to find a way.

My family moved to a little desert town in the United States during one of the hottest months of the year. But among the Latter-day Saint kids, my reception was cold.
I was 15, and my family had already moved 10 times, so it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how to make friends. I tried everything I knew to break the ice, but after five months I still didn’t have a single friend who was a member of the Church.
Luckily, I had lots of good nonmember friends at school. But that didn’t make it any easier at early-morning seminary and church. I actually sat through five months of seminary without anyone saying hello to me, except my seminary teacher. And in my Sunday School class there was always one empty seat between me and everyone else.
Tom Jeppson* was the ringleader of the LDS kids. He had never really said anything to me. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he had noticed me until one morning when he met me at the seminary doors.
“Go home. We don’t want you here,” he said.
I started to laugh. He had to be joking, right? But when I looked at his face, I knew he wasn’t kidding. I looked at the others standing close behind him. They didn’t say anything, which I figured meant they agreed.
As I turned away, I heard the doors slam behind me and muffled laughter.
I’m never going to seminary again, I swore to myself as I walked the short distance to the high school. It is all their fault.
That day seemed like it would never end. After school I rode the bus to my street, but I didn’t go home. I went to my seminary teacher’s house. He lived a few doors down from me, and I really liked him. In fact, I liked his whole family.
He usually gave me a ride to seminary each morning, so I wanted to tell him not to worry about picking me up anymore. Actually, what I really wanted was some sympathy.
Sister Murray answered the door. Brother Murray wasn’t home yet, but she invited me in for a drink of lemonade. It wasn’t long before I was telling her the whole story. She was sympathetic until I said I wasn’t going to seminary anymore and that I might not go to church ever again.
“If this is really the true Church, people wouldn’t act like that,” I said.
I expected her to plead with me to come back. I wanted her to tell me she would talk to all the kids’ parents and get them in a lot of trouble. I thought she would be ready to do almost anything to keep me active. Instead she said, “Well, fine. You’re not hurting any of those kids by not going. You’re hurting only yourself.”
I was too shocked to say anything. I quickly finished my lemonade and told her I had to go.
I stayed away from seminary and church for three weeks. My seminary teacher called a few times to check on me. I missed seminary, but I was too proud to admit it. I kept telling myself everyone was probably feeling pretty guilty they had made me become inactive. I told myself they would be in trouble on judgment day.
Still, I couldn’t forget what Sister Murray had said about me hurting only myself. And then, one day when I was reading the Book of Mormon, a scripture caught my eye: “See that ye do all things in worthiness, and do it in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God; and if ye do this, and endure to the end, ye will in nowise be cast out” (Morm. 9:29).
As I read the words, the Spirit filled my heart and I realized Sister Murray was right. Sure, the kids had been real jerks. But they couldn’t keep me away from the Church if I was determined to be there. And best of all, they couldn’t cast me out in the end, when it really mattered—not if I endured.
I got out of bed and set my alarm for 5:00 A.M., so I wouldn’t miss seminary the next day.
We lived in that hot, windy desert town for five more months and nothing really changed—except my heart. For the first time, I understood that no one was responsible for my salvation but me. I didn’t miss another day of seminary or church. And although the LDS kids were still cold, it didn’t matter. I was filled with the warmth of the gospel.

We called upon the only native Filipino member we had been able to locate. He recounted a story which I remember as follows:
When he was a boy he found in a garbage can an old, tattered copy of the Reader’s Digest. It contained a condensation of a book giving the story of the Mormon people. It spoke of Joseph Smith and described him as a prophet. The word prophet did something to that boy. Could there actually be a prophet upon the earth? he wondered. The magazine was lost, but concern over the presence of a living prophet never left him during the long, dark years of war and oppression when the Philippines were occupied. Finally the forces of liberation came, and with them the reopening of Clark Air Base. David Lagman found employment there. His supervisor, he learned, was a Mormon, an Air Force officer. He wanted to ask him if he believed in a prophet, but was afraid to do so. Finally, after much inner turmoil, he mustered the courage to inquire.
“Are you a Mormon, sir?” the young man asked.
“Yes, I am,” was the forthright reply.
“Do you believe in a prophet? Do you have a prophet in your church?” came the anxious question.
“We do have a prophet, a living prophet, who presides in this church and who teaches the will of the Lord.”
David asked the officer to tell him more, and out of that teaching came his baptism. He was the first native elder ordained in the Philippines.

About 20 years ago a new dream entered my consciousness. It is ongoing and is concerned with noninvasive medical treatments. At the time, my father in his seventies underwent open-heart surgery. I learned that the operation consisted of a large incision from his throat to his midsection followed by the cutting of his sternum with a saw that allowed doctors to open his chest, connect his blood supply to a machine, stop the heart, and perform bypass surgery. Following the operation I stood in the intensive care unit and touched my father’s body as they wheeled him to a recovery room. The body was cool and, in some ways, reminded me of a corpse. I had a sense of the trauma that had taken place. From that day onward I have dreamed of less-invasive methods to solve medical problems.

Last year was a scary time for me. I had just entered Young Women, and I was going to attend a new ward. I worried that I wouldn’t make any friends, and since I was a new member of the Church, I didn’t understand much about Young Women.
I remember the first day I went to Young Women in my new ward. I went to opening exercises and sat down by myself because I didn’t know anyone. This made me feel uneasy and alone. Then I looked up, and there was a young woman standing in front of me. She said, “Hello, Cecilia” and sat down next to me. This made me feel great, and I wasn’t scared anymore.
It was from her example that I learned what fellowshipping is all about. This has helped me to reach out to other new or lonely people who need their spirits lifted.

The Olson family in Brigham City, Utah, USA, found that even changing one small aspect of their Sabbath day brings about great blessings. Instead of watching regular television on Sunday, they focus on Church-sponsored media. They found that watching the Bible videos (see BibleVideos.org) with their children invites the Spirit as well as questions from the kids that prompt good family discussions.

“Not watching TV on the Sabbath led to the biggest shift in focus for me,” said Sister Lacey Olson. “We might feel like there are so many rules with regards to Sunday, but I think the Sabbath is a day unrestricted with regards to service and charity. If we choose, the Sabbath day can arm us with rejuvenation to face the world in the following week.”

When you want to do a stakewide service project but your stake covers a 75-mile area, what’s a ward to do? The Auburn California Stake solved the problem recently with their “Day of Impact.”
Each ward and branch chose a local project that would be completed on the same day. Afterwards, they met at a centrally located park for a barbecue, games, and story swapping. They talked about things like how they painted bleachers at a high school, built a concession booth by the football field at another high school, and weeded and cleaned yards and cemeteries. They also repaired broken headstones. They sanded and painted picnic tables at an elementary school and even restored a historical landmark—an old caboose.
Later, at a stake fireside, everyone was able to catch a glimpse of their work via video—leaders had filmed each project. Even though they had spent the day working apart, they felt a spirit of pulling together.

As a Brazilian, I was surprised when I received my mission call to serve not in Brazil or even in South America but in the Texas Houston South Mission in the United States. My surprise soon turned to deep gratitude.
Four days after I arrived in my first area, the bishop of the local ward invited my companion and me to go with him to the hospital to visit Brother Noel Stevenson, an older member who was ill with leukemia. When I met Brother Stevenson, I was amazed that he started speaking Portuguese. He told me he had served a mission to Brazil in the 1950s. He mentioned several cities where he had served, including Ponta Grossa in the state of Paraná.
“When you were in Ponta Grossa did you know Raul Pimentel?” I asked hesitantly.
With an expression of joy, he replied, “Yes, I knew Raul. I baptized him.”
I told Brother Stevenson that Raul Pimentel was my grandfather, the first member of the Church in our family. We embraced, and tears rolled down our faces.
Then I told him that my grandfather was 84 and still active in the Church. His 8 children were also active, all having married in the temple and 5 having served full-time missions. And his 30 grandchildren were active in the Church as well. As we talked, the Spirit of the Lord filled my heart with joy and gratitude.
My grandfather was baptized in 1958 by two American missionaries. He had heard that the other elder had now passed away, but he had never had any news about Elder Stevenson. When my grandfather learned that I had met the missionary who baptized him, he was overwhelmed with joy.
He and Brother Stevenson began exchanging e-mail messages almost every week. Then the e-mails stopped abruptly. I received a telephone call telling me that Brother Noel Stevenson had passed away.
Although I felt sad, I felt even more grateful that the Lord had allowed me to meet the man who brought the blessings of the gospel to my family. This experience helped me be a better missionary and strengthened my testimony that mission calls are inspired.

I grew up in a small community outside of Seattle, Washington. It was relatively close to a big city but just rural enough that opportunities to earn money for a mission were extremely limited. There were, however, a large number of gentlemen farmers in the area, so my brother and I decided to haul alfalfa hay from the big farms in the eastern part of the state, over the Cascade Mountains, to the small farms in our community. We fixed up an old truck that had fallen into disrepair and prepared it for hauling up to 20,000 pounds (9,000 kg) of hay. We made a number of successful trips with our dad along to make sure we had things figured out before he left the operation to us.
My brother and I left very early one morning for our first solo trip. We made it over the mountains but had some difficulties loading the hay. Eventually we headed back over the mountains with a full load.
The return trip was uneventful until we noticed that it was starting to sprinkle just a bit. We immediately found an overpass on the freeway and parked underneath it just as the sprinkles turned into rain. We had not yet been able to purchase a tarp to cover the hay, and no animals can eat the alfalfa hay if it gets wet because it starts to rot and mold quickly. We knew that if we lost this load of hay, our business venture would probably fail.
We sat under the overpass for quite a while, waiting for the rain to stop. Eventually, we realized that the Lord would help us if we prayed. My brother offered a prayer, and we waited. The rain did not let up. We decided that perhaps I, the elder brother, should offer a prayer. It started to rain harder. We sat there for what seemed an eternity. We knew that once we left the protective cover of the overpass, the next possible shelter was an hour away and home was another hour past that.
Finally, one of us remembered the admonition that faith precedes the miracle, and we realized that we needed to exercise our faith. We put our trust in the Lord and left the cover of the overpass. To this day I remember every drop of rain that I saw land on the hood of the truck as we inched out from under the overpass. It was a severe trial of our faith, but by the time the cab of the truck was out in the open, the rain had stopped. The next two hours were filled with much prayer and thanksgiving.
We made it home with our load in good shape, and as we were pulling the truck into the barn, the heavens released their pent-up downpour. Our business survived, and both of us were able to successfully fund our missionary service.
Not all of my prayers have been answered this way, but I am very thankful for the lesson in faith my brother and I learned sitting under the freeway overpass in the rain.

I learned a great lesson the night before my father was released as a bishop. It was the first time I had really ever seen my father shed tears. He called the family together to announce that his term of service as a bishop was over. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he told us how he would miss the calling, even though it had been a burden at times and had occupied a great deal of time. He taught us a real-life lesson of the true joy of Church service. It was not until then that I fully appreciated the blessings we had had in our home as a family, by having the mantle of a bishop rest on the shoulders of our father.

Nor do I believe that George W. Grant, C. Allen Huntington, and David Patton Kimball were simply programmed by age 18 to spend that stormswept day in early November 1856 carrying members of the Martin Handcart Company across the 100-foot-wide Sweetwater River. They and the many others who helped these poor stranded pioneers were heroes choosing to face life-threatening conditions to rescue people they had never met.

I’m a deacon. My parents have taught me that I should be an example for my friends because I hold the priesthood and because I represent Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. It really helps me to choose the right and look for chances to serve others. I know that if I do good things, my friends will see what I do and maybe want to do good things too.
After Sunday School a while ago, I was in the hall when I saw a teacher who needed help with some chairs. She was going to set them up outside the building for an activity. She didn’t ask me to help her, but I saw that she needed help. There were a lot of chairs, and she was all alone. So I took most of the chairs outside and set them up for her.
Afterward, the teacher said, “Thank you for helping.” It wasn’t a big deal for me since it didn’t take very long, but she was really grateful, which made me feel good. Later, the teacher told my mom about what I had done. My mom said I did a good thing and that I should keep looking for opportunities to serve others, because it’s something that Christ would do.
I was happy and grateful that I had served. It made me feel good, and it made me want to serve more often.
Emiliano H., Texas, USA

A translator in the Philippines discovered another problem. He completed his translation of the Gospel of John, printed it, and gave some copies to the tribe he was with. Nobody liked it, and nobody read it. After some investigation, he found that the native language had two forms for stories, one for fiction and one for true stories. In his translation, he had used the fictional form. He redid the translation in the other form, and the new version was a success.

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town in British Columbia, Canada, where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending time with my Latter-day Saint friends. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church.
As was our habit, a group of us gathered in the foyer of our meetinghouse and began chatting. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with this boy and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded halfheartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He looked awkward and uncomfortable and mostly stared at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We talked for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too intrusive. Then we slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is—except the new boy. We were so caught up in our discussion we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the rest room, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, joined her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a five-kilometer walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to Laurence, my older brother, about it. He had returned from college and would soon go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” he asked me after I had blurted out the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we walked into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a streetlight and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a woman I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight, and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I want to apologize and invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes a look of disgust at the way we had treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong, and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I had even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted my burden of guilt. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart: I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

1. It was two days before Christmas in Sharon, Vermont. The sharp features of houses, trees, and fences were softened and rounded by a heavy blanket of snow.
2. Near midnight the scattered farm homes were dark—except for the Smith’s, where a single lamp shining through a bedroom window made a checkered pattern on the snow outside. Although it was Christmastime, a light that late at night was unusual.
3. Something wonderful had happened on that twenty-third night of December 1805; a baby who would become a prophet had been born.
4. The next morning when Alvin and Hyrum, oldest of the children, saw a neighbor coming to visit, they plowed through the drifts to meet him and shouted …
5. “We have a new baby!”
“It’s a boy!”
6. Trudging back to the house, the trio waved at little sister Sophronia who was watching them.
7. Father Smith came to the door and let them in …
8. Inside, the baby was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms.
9. “Well what do you know … a baby boy!”
“We’re so pleased! He’ll be named Joseph after his father.”
10. There were no telephones, just neighbors to pass the word along.
“Another boy for the Smiths.”
“They can always use another hand on the farm.”
11. Mother Lucy stroked the soft baby hair and even though he looked now like any other baby, she dreamed that someday he would be a leader, a mighty man.
12. But she could not have guessed that this tiny Joseph would restore the Church of Jesus Christ and that millions would follow his teachings.

Our grandson, six-year-old Jeffrey Monson Dibb, accompanied by his six-year-old girlfriend, paused at an end table in his house on which there was a picture of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. The young girl pointed to the picture and asked, “Who is that man?”
Jeff replied, “Oh, that’s Elder Jeffrey Holland of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles. He’s named after me!”
This same namesake of Elder Holland’s, along with his girlfriend, went for a walk one day. They marched up the front steps of a home, not knowing who lived there or what affiliation they might have with the Church. They knocked on the front door, and a woman answered. Without the slightest hesitation, Jeff Dibb said to her, “We are the visiting home teachers. May we come in?” They were ushered into the living room and were asked to be seated. With total faith the children addressed the woman, “Do you have a treat for us?” What could she do? She produced a treat, and they had a nice conversation. The impromptu teachers departed, uttering a sincere “Thank you.”
“Come back again,” they heard the woman say, with a smile on her face.
“We will,” came the reply.
The parents of the two youngsters heard of the incident. I am certain they were restrained in counseling the little ones. Perhaps they remembered the words from the scriptures: “And a little child shall lead them.”

In the four short years of Bimbo’s life, he had many experiences. One winter my brother had scarlet fever. In those days medicines were not as effective as they are now in controlling communicable diseases, so no one was allowed to leave the home during such illnesses. My father went to live with his parents for three weeks so he could continue his work. The rest of us, including Bimbo, were not supposed to leave the house.
A quarantine sign was placed in a window and no one came to visit but the doctor. Whenever Mother opened the door to let the doctor in, Bimbo would dart out. Then Mother or I had to chase him up the street and bring him back to his “prison” so he wouldn’t carry the disease to anyone. I don’t know who disliked the quarantine period most—me, my mother, or Bimbo.

But Paul was born with something Phillip didn’t share—a disease called cerebral palsy. Although Phillip soon grew to be healthy, Paul had problems controlling his leg muscles. His brain would send too many signals to his legs, so the legs didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t sit up or walk. He had to have lots of physical therapy.
Then when Paul was five years old, a therapist recommended a new kind of surgery. Fewer than 100 people in the country had ever had such an operation, but doctors said chances were good it would help.
The operation was long. Surgeons cut nerves in Paul’s back and in one leg to reduce the nerve signals to his legs. After the surgery, the recovery was slow and painful, with six more months of therapy. “It was hard for Phillip to watch Paul struggle,” their father says. “They asked to be together, so sometimes we would let Phillip spend the night where Paul was recovering. He just wanted to be with his brother.”
Today the brothers are still together—and still sharing. Paul drags his foot a little, but he walks! That allows him to pass the football back and forth with Phillip. He can also hold the ball while Phillip kicks. They work on Cub Scout pins and badges, and go to their Primary class on Sundays. They earned their Faith in God Awards together. And they practice their trumpets while their older sister Avery, 12, plays clarinet and their younger sister Kaylene, 10, holds the music. All of the children love soccer, and Paul was asked to be the manager for Phillip’s team at school. All of the brothers and sisters read and study together and talk about their school assignments. And all of them play with Avery’s pet hedgehog, Pooka, which she shares with the entire family.