Gospel Story Finder

It is important for us to remember, however, that sometimes the Lord’s desires differ from ours. As his agents in the performance of priesthood duties, it is mandatory that we be receptive to his inspiration. A missionary I knew had a sobering experience giving a blessing. He was working on a renovation project at a branch chapel in New Zealand. The branch president, who was doing some repairs on the roof, lost his footing and fell to the pavement below. Immediately the missionary ran to his side and pronounced a powerful blessing, promising him life and complete restoration to health. A few minutes later, the branch president died.

Greatly disillusioned, the missionary went to his apartment and wrote three letters: one to his mission president, one to his bishop, and one to the president of the Church. The letters outlined his disenchantment with the priesthood and his intention to abandon his missionary service. Then he went to bed.

After worrying, struggling, and praying intermittently throughout the night, he gradually came to understand that the Lord’s will had been done—and that he needed to seek the inspiration and guidance of the Lord earnestly before undertaking any administration.

Isabelle was so excited that she almost skipped as she and her dad walked down the hallway. Her mom had just brushed her dark hair and zipped up the long white skirt Isabelle would wear for her baptism. She stopped outside the room where everyone was waiting.
“Can anyone have one of those?” she asked her dad, pointing to copies of the Book of Mormon on a small table.
“Yes. They’re for people who want to know more about our church,” Dad said.
Isabelle peeked into the room. It was full of people she loved. Her grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins sat near the front. Her best friend, Grace, sat with her family at the back. But Isabelle didn’t see Miss Perkins, her schoolteacher.
“Let’s go in,” Dad said. “It’s time for the meeting to start.”
“Can we wait one more minute for Miss Perkins?”
Miss Perkins was Isabelle’s favorite teacher. She loved books, and Isabelle did too.
“It was nice of you to invite her, Isabelle, but she might not come,” Dad said gently.
Isabelle sighed and nodded. She and Dad walked into the room and sat in the front row. Right before the opening hymn, Isabelle turned around to look for her teacher one last time. There she was with Grace’s family! Isabelle smiled. Miss Perkins smiled back.
After Isabelle’s baptism the bishop asked everyone to squeeze together for a photo.
“Where is Isabelle?” he asked.
Everyone looked around. No Isabelle!
Grace went to find her friend. First she looked down the hallway, but Isabelle wasn’t there. Then she looked in the foyer, but she wasn’t there either. Finally, Grace looked outside and saw Isabelle standing on the steps of the meetinghouse talking to Miss Perkins.
“Thank you for coming to my baptism,” Isabelle said.
“You’re welcome,” said Miss Perkins. “I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. I have another appointment today.”
“That’s OK. But I wanted to give you something.” Isabelle handed her teacher a Book of Mormon that she had picked up off the table in the hallway. “I know you love to read, and this is a really good book.”
“Thank you,” Miss Perkins said.
“Will you read it?” Isabelle asked.
“Yes, I will,” Miss Perkins said. “I promise.”
Isabelle felt so happy. She smiled as she turned and saw Grace waiting for her.
“What were you doing out there?” Grace asked. “Your mom wants a group picture.”
“I went to give Miss Perkins a Book of Mormon,” Isabelle said.
Grace’s eyes widened. “Were you scared?”
“A little. But I was more afraid that she would just put it away on a shelf somewhere. So I asked her if she would read it.”
“What did she say?” Grace asked.
“She promised that she would!”
“That’s great!” Grace said.
The two girls joined the group of friends and relatives.
“I’m glad Grace found you, Isabelle!” the bishop said. Then he asked everyone to squeeze together again for the picture. Isabelle stood right in the middle of the front row.
Afterward, Isabelle’s mom leaned over to hug her. “Now you can remember your baptism day forever!” she said.
Isabelle smiled. She knew that with or without a picture, she would never forget her baptism day and how good it felt to be a missionary.

Once upon a time, in a very small village, there lived two brothers. Peter, the older brother, was very smart and strong. He did everything well.
He planted his garden in nice straight rows.
He gathered his hay and straw into neat bundles.
He fed his chickens and cow well.
He chopped wood exactly the right size and piled it neatly by his little stove.
He kept his little cottage and the shelters for his animals clean and dry.
Yes, Peter did everything well.
Putter, the younger brother, was also smart and strong, but he did very little well. He played his guitar very nicely, and he sang beautifully, but that is all he did well. People thought Putter was lazy. Peter loved his brother and his brother’s music, so he was content to do most of the work for both of them.
When Putter was little, he followed Peter around as he did his chores.
“Let me help you,” Putter would beg.
Peter would hand him seeds to drop into the straight rows that Peter had plowed. But soon he would yell, “Putter, stop! Your seeds are not exactly the same distance apart. You don’t know how to do this.”
“I can learn,” Putter said.
“I can do it better myself,” said Peter.
When he was a little bigger, Putter got some hay to feed the cow. “Stop!” said Peter. “You’re not taking the right amount, and you’re dropping some on the ground.”
“Show me the right way, and I’ll do it,” cried Putter.
“No, I’ll do it myself. Why don’t you try feeding the chickens.”
Putter scattered corn for the chickens and laughed as they clucked around him. But no sooner had he started than Peter came rushing over to the chicken coop. “Stop!” he yelled. “You’re feeding them too much. They’ll grow swollen and sick, and I’ll run out of chicken feed.”
“Just tell me how much to give them, Brother. I want to help,” said Putter.
“No, you can sing and play, but stay out of my way while I’m working.”
Putter and his cat, Matilda, walked to the oak tree. He sat under it and played his guitar. He sang sweet songs, but he was not happy.
When he grew to be a young man, Putter decided that he must help his brother more, so while Peter was out working, he made a meal for him. He sang while he cooked, and he served Peter a dinner of soup, fresh bread, milk, and apples.
“This soup has too little salt,” said Peter, “and the bread is not crusty enough. My bread isn’t, either, but it’s better than yours. You had best let me do the cooking.”
One day Putter said, “Brother, I am too big and strong to allow you to do all the work and take care of me. I will move to the cottage down the road and have my own little farm.”
“How will you manage?” asked Peter.
“I will learn,” said Putter. He packed his things, picked up his guitar, and set out down the road with Matilda following. He got a cow, some chickens, some seeds, and an ax. He sang while he worked, and he worked very hard. He played his guitar and waited for his garden to grow.
When the green shoots came out of the ground, they were weak and straggly and the rows were very crooked. Some seeds had been planted too deep and didn’t come up at all. Some had been planted too shallow and were washed away by the rain or eaten by the birds.
“Oh dear,” said Putter. “I won’t have enough corn for my chickens. But I see now what I did wrong.”
The hay he planted grew a little, but Putter did not know how to tie and stack it properly or when to bring it in. One night, rain soaked it and made it moldy. “Oh dear,” Putter said. “I worked hard, but now there won’t be enough hay for the cow. However, I see now what I should have done.”
Winter was coming, so Putter chopped wood for his fire. When the snows came, he put some of the wood into his little potbellied stove. But the pieces were too long, and he could not close the door, so the fire burned too quickly, and soon his supply of wood was gone.
Matilda sat beside him while he played a sad song on his guitar. “I’m sorry, Matilda,” he said. “I’m a failure. I must admit my faults and take you and the cow and the chickens to my brother’s home, or we will all starve.”
He knocked on Peter’s door, but his brother did not open it. He knocked again. A weak voice called, “Come in.”
Putter found his brother in bed, looking very ill. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was chopping wood. One piece was not exactly the right size, and when I trimmed it, the ax slipped, and I cut my foot deeply.”
“How glad I am that I came. I’ll do your chores and care for you until you’re well.”
“Oh dear,” Peter moaned as soon as Putter had gone out to the barn.
Putter tied his thin cow in the stall next to Peter’s fat cow. He looked to see how much hay Peter had set out for his cow, then gave both cows that same amount.
He put his chickens in the yard with Peter’s chickens. He looked at the corn Peter had measured out to feed the chickens, then added another measure just like it to feed all of them.
The sky looked a little stormy, so he gathered the neat piles of hay and straw and put them under shelter.
While Peter slept, Putter made dinner. “This time I will taste the soup so I will use enough salt. And I will butter the top before I bake the bread. That will make it crustier.”
While the soup simmered and the bread baked, Putter gathered apples and milked the cows. He chopped wood, too, remembering to make the pieces smaller.
When Peter awoke, the cottage was warm and cozy and smelled of good things. He heard sweet music and smiled. “I’m very hungry, Brother,” he said.
Peter tasted the meal that Putter had made. “Why, this is fine food, Brother. How did you do it?” Putter just smiled and strummed his guitar.
Peter tried to climb out of bed. “I must feed our cows and the chickens,” he said.
“I have done that already,” said Putter, gently pushing him back into bed.
“But you don’t know how!” Peter exclaimed. “And it’s raining! The hay will be wet—the firewood too.”
“They are dry, and the wood is chopped and stacked by the stove.”
Peter scratched his head. “How did you learn so much so quickly, Brother?”
Putter smiled again. “By my mistakes, I suppose. When I first played my guitar, I made many mistakes. Then I learned what I did wrong, and I improved. But when I made mistakes helping you, you never let me try again. In my little house, I did everything wrong. But God has blessed me with the brains to see my mistakes, and I am learning. Did you never make mistakes before you got so smart, Brother?”
“I suppose I did.” Peter thought a while. “Come to think of it, I’m still making mistakes. I kept my strong, smart brother from helping me, and I cut my own foot trying to be perfect. I’ll probably make more mistakes, but I hope you’ll stay here and help me.”
Putter played a happy tune on his guitar, Matilda curled up by the stove, and Peter smiled and tapped the floor with the foot that didn’t hurt.
“Perhaps you will show me how to make that delicious crusty bread, Brother,” said Peter.
“Of course I will.” Putter’s eyes twinkled as he added, “And if it doesn’t turn out well, I’ll let you try again until you get it right.”

Corey: Did you ever see it rain that hard before? I thought that I was going to have to start growing gills like a fish.
Dale: And it got dark so fast!
Morgan: Dad says that they often get sudden storms in these mountains.
Dale: We’re lucky that we were close to this cave when the rain started.
Corey: It’s not very much of a cave.
Dale: No, but at least we’re out of the rain.
Corey: Hey, what if … ? Nah.
Dale: What if what, Corey?
Corey: I was just wondering if any animals use this cave.
Dale: You mean like a mountain lion or a bear or something?
Morgan: Dad said that he didn’t think there were any mountain lions or bears still around here. But we have seen deer, and once we heard some coyotes.
Dale: Coyotes don’t attack people, do they?
Corey: If they’re trying to protect their babies, they might.
Morgan: Well, there aren’t any coyote pups or other animals here, or we’d hear them.
Corey: It’s awfully dark! Maybe some old mountain lion dragged its prey up here to eat, and these aren’t rocks we’re sitting on, but old bones.
Dale: Corey, stop imagining things! And why are you always thinking about food?
Morgan: I’m a little hungry myself. At least when we get back to the cabin, Mom will have dinner ready.
Corey: And we’ll have dry clothes to change into.
Morgan: And after dinner we can crawl into our sleeping bags and watch the fire in the fireplace.
Corey: And tell ghost stories!
Dale: Listen! The rain is letting up. [They pause to listen.]
Morgan: It is stopping.
Corey: I’m beginning to taste that stew already.
Morgan: And toasted marshmallows.
Corey: Let’s go!
Morgan: The ground will be slippery, so we’ll have to be careful.
[Dale bows his head, shakes it, then looks up again.]
Dale: I don’t think that we should go yet.
Morgan: But the rain’s stopped.
Corey: And I’m hungry.
Dale: No. We need to wait.
Corey: What’s the matter with you? Are you scared of the dark?
Dale: No, it isn’t that.
Morgan: It’s easy to find our way back. We just have to climb down the hill to the bottom of Anklebone Canyon. It’s so narrow that we can touch both canyon walls while we follow the riverbed to the trail that leads up to our cabin.
Corey: And the sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll get that hot stew.
Dale: I just have this feeling that we shouldn’t go yet.
Corey: Well, I have feelings, too—feelings of being hungry and cold and wet.
Dale: I feel all those things, too, Corey. But I have this stronger feeling that we shouldn’t go yet.
Corey: Think of Morgan’s parents. They’ll be worried about us.
Morgan: And what if this cave is the home of some kind of animal and it comes back now that the rain’s stopped?
Dale: All I know is that we ought to stay here.
[Corey and Morgan grumble a bit and try to push Dale out of the cave.]
Morgan: Wait a minute. Do you hear something?
Corey: Nothing but water dripping off the trees.
Dale: I hear it—a faint rumbling sound.
Corey: I hear it now. It’s probably just the storm off in the distance.
Morgan: We’d better hurry back.
Corey [To Dale]: Are you coming or not?
Dale: No, and you’d better stay too.
Morgan: This feeling of yours, Dale—is it like being scared that we’re in some kind of danger?
Dale: Sort of. But mostly it’s just a feeling that we should stay where we are.
Morgan: I’ve had that feeling before when I’ve prayed for Heavenly Father to help me. I’d get this strong feeling inside of me about what I should do, and I’d feel real calm and peaceful.
Corey: I’ve been baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost, and I don’t feel anything right now but my teeth chattering.
Morgan: Maybe you’re not really listening.
Dale: Just put everything else out of your mind and listen “inside.”
Corey: You two are making too much out of this. I’m not waiting around here to freeze to death when I can be eating hot stew at the cabin in less than half an hour.
[Corey starts to leave, but Dale grabs his arm.]
Dale: Wait a minute, Corey. Listen to that noise. It’s not the storm—it’s coming from below us!
Morgan: It sounds like a giant waterfall.
Corey: With rocks crashing against each other.
Dale: You know what that sound is? It’s a flash flood!
Morgan: You’re right!
Corey: Do you think that it will reach us up here?
Dale: No, we’ll be safe this high.
Morgan: And the cabin is high enough to be safe.
Corey: But if we had started back—
Morgan: We’d have been caught in the bottom of the canyon!
Corey: We could have been killed!
Dale: Well, we’re OK now.
Morgan: Thanks to you, Dale. You stuck up for what you felt was right, and because you did, you saved our lives!
Dale: I’m just thankful that the Holy Ghost guides us when we need help.
Morgan: But some of us need to listen a little better to the promptings of the Spirit.
Corey: That’s right—and to the promptings of good friends too!

Preparing to decorate our Christmas tree, I unpacked a box filled with Christmas decorations that I hadn’t seen or used in several years. As I pawed through the Christmas lights and linens, I discovered a dress box filled with Christmas ornaments I had collected when I was single and teaching school. I discovered a plain, cross-stitched ornament that simply said “Christmas Open House—1984.” My mind raced back to that year. I was unmarried and had apprehensively moved from a young single adult ward to a family ward.
I love the Christmas season, but some had been very lonely for me. Being in my 30s, single, and not having children, I sometimes felt left out. It was easy for me to feel sorry for myself, falling back into what I called the “poor little old me syndrome.” That particular year, 1984, I remember making a conscious decision to conquer the syndrome, to look beyond myself and see what I could do to make Christmas joyful for others.
I was relatively new to the ward and thought that opening my modest apartment to members of the Relief Society would help me celebrate the holidays and become better acquainted with the sisters.
As I reminisced about that open house, I remembered the small Christmas tree decorated with my box of ornaments, the smell of the shortbread cookies my single friends helped me bake, and the sweet taste of Mom’s “white Christmas punch” I served to the guests.
That conscious decision in 1984 to “lose my life” by looking outward was indeed a turning point in “finding” myself. As I pondered the past, I realized that many, in turn, had followed our Savior’s words and lost their life for me. Christmas ornaments had become a sweet reminder of Christlike friends.

Since I know something of the anxiety the pressure of time creates in your life, I would like to share what I have learned about how to handle that feeling of hurry. It’s important to be sure we agree on the nature of the problem. Time passes at a fixed rate and we can’t store it. You can just decide what to do with it—or not to do with it. Even a moment’s reflection will help you see that the problem of using your time well is not a problem of the mind but of the heart. It will only yield to a change in the very way we feel about time. The value of time must change for us. And then the way we think about it will change, naturally and wisely.
That change in feeling and in thinking is combined in the words of a prophet of God in this dispensation. It was Brigham Young, and the year was 1877. “The property which we inherit from our Heavenly Father is our time, and the power to choose in the disposition of the same. This is the real capital that is bequeathed unto us by our Heavenly Father; all the rest is what he may be pleased to add unto us” (Journal of Discourses, 18:354).
Time is the property which we inherit from God, along with the power to choose what we will do with it. President Young calls the gift of life, which is time and the power to dispose of it, so great an inheritance that we should feel that it is our capital. The early Yankee families in America taught their children and grandchildren some rules about an inheritance. They were always to invest the capital they inherited and to live only on part of the earnings. One rule was “Never spend your capital.” The hope was that inherited wealth would be felt a trust so important that no descendant would put pleasure ahead of obligation to those who would follow.
There is more than one way to spend time foolishly, as you know. You may sleep it away or play it away. But the bankruptcy that will cheat all those who come after you, comes after the idleness and the thoughtless seeking for thrills.
When you choose to see or hear filth portrayed, for instance, you may at first feel you have just spent some time. But if you persist, you will find that beyond time wasted you have allowed Satan to draw you toward sin and then into it. And then you will have incurred debts that will burden and diminish every minute of existence that follows, unless and until you find the healing balm of the atonement of Jesus Christ through repentance, which takes pain, and time. Oh, what Brigham Young would want for you, and what I pray you may have, is a heart that wants to invest your inheritance, time.
It’s worth doing, not only because you have life ahead but because you have eternity ahead, as well. Here is one report that suggests your reward for investing your inheritance well here will be to get to do it forever. President Wilford Woodruff gave this report in general conference in 1896.
“Joseph Smith continued visiting myself and others up to a certain time, and then it stopped. The last time I saw him was in heaven. In the night vision I saw him at the door of the temple in heaven. He came to me and spoke to me. He said he could not stop to talk with me because he was in a hurry. The next man I met was Father Smith; he could not talk with me because he was in a hurry. I met half a dozen brethren who had held high positions on earth, and none of them could stop to talk with me because they were in a hurry. I was much astonished. By and by I saw the Prophet again and I got the privilege of asking him a question.
“‘Now,’ said I, ‘I want to know why you are in a hurry? I have been in a hurry all my life; but I expected my hurry would be over when I got into the kingdom of heaven, if I ever did.’
“Joseph said: ‘I will tell you, Brother Woodruff. Every dispensation that has had the priesthood on the earth and has gone into the celestial kingdom has had a certain amount of work to do to prepare to go to the earth with the Savior when he goes to reign on the earth. Each dispensation has had ample time to do this work. We have not. We are the last dispensation, and so much work has to be done, and we need to be in a hurry in order to accomplish it.’
“Of course, that was satisfactory, but it was new doctrine to me” (Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, sel. G. Homer Durham, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946, pp. 288–89).
Can you see and feel the truth in these familiar words of President Benson? “You have been born at this time for a sacred and glorious purpose. It is not by chance that you have been reserved to come to earth in this last dispensation of the fulness of times. Your birth at this particular time was foreordained in the eternities. You are to be the royal army of the Lord in the last days. You are ‘youth of the noble birthright’” (Ensign, May 1986, p. 43).
When I heard those words I thought of a boy with a noble birthright, but lacking what many of you have. He was born on November 22. Thirteen days later his father was buried. He was named and blessed by the bishop of his ward, Edwin Woolley. The name he was given by the bishop was Heber Jeddy Ivins Grant. “I was only an instrument in the hands of his dead father … in blessing him,” Bishop Woolley later remarked. Heber Grant “is entitled to be one of the Apostles, and I know it” (The Presidents of the Church, ed. Leonard J. Arrington, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1986, p. 212).
People then and since have called Heber J. Grant a “child of promise.” He was. But his departed father didn’t make the promises to the child. His Heavenly Father did. Your Heavenly Father did—the same Father who chose you to come into this time and place to hold, honor, and to nurture those who hold his power. You have a right to become like your Heavenly Father. You are a royal child of God, a child of promise, chosen from among many to be here and to have your royal inheritance, time in the fulness of times.
One young man changed forever my feelings about the value of that gift, and what it means to be a child of promise. Bob Allen was an undergraduate at Stanford University when I was his bishop. He left his schooling to serve a mission in Japan. He came back to school, took up his studies, and lived in a world of too many demands and too little time.
One day I was sitting at my desk in the graduate school of business at Stanford. I looked up and saw two people. I remember that their faces seemed to shine. Suddenly, Bob Allen stepped between them and, smiling as broadly as they were, said, “These are two new bishops from Japan.” They could speak little English, but I could tell they loved Bob Allen and, because of something he must have told them, they loved me. I thought then, as I have many times since, how remarkable it was that he had found time to spend days with those young men from Japan.
I spoke in a sacrament meeting in Tokyo ten years later. The person who had introduced me mentioned that I had been at Stanford. Two young people, a couple, rushed to me after the meeting and said, “Did you know Bob Allen? We love him.”
Later I was in Tokyo again. Of all the excellent presentations made to me, one seemed most remarkable. I asked to see the man who had made it. He was introduced and then said, “We have met before, at Stanford University.” He was the young man, now older, who had stood with his fellow bishop in my office door. He told me about his life, and the life of the other man, now a great leader in Japan. In that moment, I learned again, in my heart as well as my head, what it means to have a royal inheritance of time, and how a child of promise, who believes the promises, can invest it to produce returns for eternity.
Because of that moment I’ve come to understand something that happened to me in my early teens. I was in a hurry when I felt, not heard, a voice, an impression, which I knew then was from God. It was close to these words: “Someday, when you know who you really are, you will be sorry that you didn’t use your time better.” I thought then that the impression was odd, since I thought I was using my time pretty well and I thought I knew who I was. Now, years later, I am beginning to know who I am—and who you are—and why we will be so sorry if we do not invest our time well.
You will develop your ability to invest your precious time well by gaining three confidences. First, you must gain confidence that God keeps his promises. Second, you must gain God’s confidence that you will always keep the promises, not that you choose to make, but that he asks you to make. And third, you must help others gain confidence that God keeps his promises.

September 2
Dearest Sarah,
We sold some tomatoes this week, and I got $13.00. They’re easier to pick than beans, and I like the way the vines smell. I also like to stop every now and then and eat one—all juicy and warm from the sun. I wish I could send you one in the mail.
I hope that you’ll understand this part. I was in a store last week, looking for notebooks and pencils for school, when I saw this little sweatshirt just Lindsay’s size with a penguin on it. She needs school clothes. I knew it would remind her of you; she still adores the penguin you sent her. It was $9.99, and so I bought it for her. Lindsay was thrilled. She put it on and wouldn’t take it off, even for bed. But after tithing and the notebooks … well, I hope you understand.
School starts Monday.
Love,Angela the Spendthrift
P.S. I promised the Claybourne kids some pumpkins for Halloween and a watermelon.

As I walked up the dusty, junk-covered path to an old, decaying shack, I was literally overcome with the hopeless poverty that met my eyes. The roof of the little house was caved in on one side. The broken windows had been flimsily covered with old newspapers. Broken glass, nails, old cans, and other debris made a drab yard covering. Torn lace curtains hung loosely at the windows, and my eyes caught the sight of soot-covered walls and floors inside. About 15 to 20 cats scampered before me as I walked up the path. As I began knocking on the weather-beaten door, I thought fleetingly of the comfortable life I had grown accustomed to at Brigham Young University, longing momentarily for the security of the campus. But now here I was, a student nurse many miles from Provo, not quite sure if I was ready for the challenge that had been given me.

It had all begun several weeks earlier in my public health study class. As part of the course, we were all required to gain practical experience as student nurses. I had planned on working in Salt Lake City, but on our first day, my instructor stated that student nurses were needed to help staff a public health office in a small town. I felt a sudden prodding within myself to volunteer. I tried to stifle it but couldn’t, and before long found myself on my way to a new home and new responsibilities.

The day after I arrived, I reported to two registered nurses in the public health office, the only two public health nurses in the entire county. To say that they were busy was an understatement. My eyes fell on the files that represented hundreds of cases, all active and in need of some kind of medical help. With my heart in my throat, I began to realize that there would be no time for detailed observation and learning. This was clearly going to be a case of jump in and hope for the best.

My supervisor assigned me three cases and then, looking at me thoughtfully, said, “I have one more case for you, but I am a little hesitant about it.” She held a thick, yellowed file in her hand.

“This old woman has a severe medical problem, and she refuses all help. She has done so for the past two years, and I am weary of trying to help her. If you feel you would like to try, and promise not to be disappointed if you fail, I will give you this case.” My heart went out to this old woman I had never seen, and I knew I had to try.

Reading her file, I discovered that she was in her late 70s and had injured her right leg in a crushing accident some years before. No bones had been broken, but vital vessels and muscles had been damaged and mangled. Although treatment had been obtained, circulation to her lower leg was left impaired. Periodically the blood would stagnate, collect waste products, put pressure on surrounding tissue, and thus suffocate or eat away the healthy tissue in the area, causing leg ulcers to form.

This condition had plagued her until she had finally gone to see a doctor. He was a good doctor but had been insensitive and rough. Because of this one unfortunate incident, she became very frightened and resolved never to see another doctor. The physician had not had a chance to complete his treatments, and as a result, her leg had become very painful, infected, and useless. It was covered with large, purulent ulcers. It drained bright red blood and dead, yellow-black tissue, and the flesh was rotting in places.

The old woman was a recluse, and her only real contact with the rest of the world was through a neighbor child who was paid to run errands and do shopping. Other people had tried to help, but the old woman was afraid and would not see anyone.

Still, when I went to meet her that first day, I was not really prepared for the ill, bent old woman with long, gray, disheveled hair who hobbled to the door. She barely gave me time to tell her who I was before she ordered me out, declaring that she wanted all the nurses to leave her alone. But I knew that I couldn’t. While at her home I had detected an odor that I had known only once before, but it is something I never forgot. She was developing gangrene.

The supervisor confirmed my diagnosis and wanted me off the case. She told me that the old woman might only live a few weeks, and if she died while a student was on the case, the county attorney might interrogate me, questioning my competency as a nurse. She said she would take over the responsibility now. Somehow I couldn’t accept that the old woman was going to have her life end in such a painful and lonely way. I pleaded with my supervisor for one more week to try, and miraculously she agreed.

The second day the old woman let me in, and we talked about everything but her problem. I went home and cried. I felt sure I would never be able to convince her of her need to seek help.

The third day I visited her again and confronted her with the fact that she was going to die if she did not receive treatment. She didn’t even seem to care, certain that she had nothing to live for.

I returned to my apartment, feeling very discouraged. What could I do when she refused to be helped? I had nowhere to turn except to prayer. I had prayed for her before, but this day my roommate knelt beside me in sincere concern, and together we poured out our souls to the Lord, pleading for wisdom and guidance.

The next few days passed uneventfully. I tried to have faith, and I prayed continually. On the fifth day the answer came. I suddenly knew what to do. No voices, no visions, no suggestions from within or without came to me. I just knew what to do.

I put my plan together and rushed over to the old woman’s home. Her eyes sparkled as I showed her the foaming hydrogen peroxide I had brought with me. She was completely impressed and asked if they would use painless medications and treatments like this one at the hospital. I assured her they would be very careful to make her stay as pleasant as possible. I made a quick trip over to the hospital to tell them that this old woman, who had such a great fear of doctors, might soon be coming.

The next day I had to return to Provo for the weekend. I didn’t want to leave her, but it was made easier by a loving and concerned neighbor, the mother of the little girl who bought groceries for the old woman. She was delighted with the change that was beginning in the woman. She promised she would do all she could to help.

When I returned, I found that my elderly friend had had the courage to enter the hospital. The whole county health office was in a state of celebration. I ran to the old woman’s hospital room. Her clean, shining face greeted me with a warm smile. “I came to the hospital. You convinced me,” she said. Then she asked me what church I belonged to. When I replied that I was a Latter-day Saint, she said, “I knew it. I knew you were sent to me from the first day that I saw you. There was a light in your face that I had noticed in others of your faith. I had to put my trust in you.”

Just try to imagine the joy that enveloped my soul! God had accomplished in one week what others had been trying to do for two years. I had never known such feelings of relief. Her leg was completely healed in three months’ time. The LDS ward in her area remodeled her house and fixed up her yard as a service project. The missionaries came to visit her, and she was baptized soon after.

She now attends Sunday meetings, including Relief Society, regularly, and her joy in living has returned. How grateful I am to have come to know and love this daughter of our Father in Heaven. Through my experiences with her, I have learned that with continued faith and effort, you can find the gold at the end of the rainbow. And when you do, you will never be the same again.

This Christmas story occurred in the middle of the summer some years ago at a naval training center.
The man opposite me in the room had the many stripes on his uniform that signified long and distinguished service; I was an apprentice seaman in boot camp. Nonetheless, Commander Hamilton, as he had greeted me at the door, had been most gracious—he called me “Mr. Hanks,” seated me with cordiality, and we talked as equals.
The commander, senior chaplain at the great training center, had invited me into his office to discuss the possibility of my becoming a chaplain. I was quick to explain that because I had interrupted my university training to serve as a missionary, I had not finished an academic degree and didn’t qualify for the chaplaincy under the navy’s standards. He replied that he felt he might be able to do something about getting a waiver of that requirement, all other things being favorable.
Commander Hamilton was a rangy, strong-looking man for whom I had immediately formed a feeling of respect and admiration. I had learned that he was one of the survivors of the aircraft carrier Yorktown when she was sunk by enemy action in the war and that he had been in the water for many hours before rescue. I was complimented and humbled that such a man would be considering his proposed action after having visited our group of LDS servicemen at the base.
“Before I recommend you to the Chief of Chaplains, Mr. Hanks, do me a favor, please. Talk to me about your experience in your Church, about what you think may help me in my recommendation of you as qualified to represent the Lord in the military chaplaincy.”
I began to explain to him the lifelong experience of a young man in the Church that had helped me prepare for such a significant opportunity. We went back to the beginning—the early participation, the 2 1/2-minute talks, the service as deacon, teacher, priest, elder, seventy; Scouting, seminary, institute, Sunday School teaching, leadership opportunities, missionary service.
As I talked, he who had been so courteous and kind and interested began to fidget, to lose interest, and I realized, as we do when we are seeking to communicate person-to-person, that I was not connecting, that l was losing the battle, and I became more anxious. Earnestly I tried to tell him what there is in the stage-by-stage opportunity in the Church for a young person to develop the quality to be a servant of God.
After a time his demeanor completely changed, and he interrupted me, saying very brusquely, “Say, Hanks, do you believe in Jesus Christ?”
“Yes, sir!” I said, “Everything I believe relates to Jesus Christ. My faith, my life, center in him as my Savior. The Church I belong to is founded on him and follows him as its living head. It is named in his name.”
He said, looking at his watch, “Well, you have been talking for seven minutes, and you haven’t said so.”
I think I have not made that mistake again.

“Time to get up,” Mom called cheerfully. I rolled over and pretended I didn’t hear her. That’s what I do when I don’t want to get up.
Mom didn’t give up. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” she called. “Anyone who wants to eat had better come downstairs.”
That got my brother going. “Come on,” Devon grunted, giving my bed a shake.
“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.
“Suit yourself.” He put on his robe and headed downstairs.
It was true. I wasn’t hungry. In fact, my stomach kind of ached. I stared at the wall. Maybe I should tell Mom I’m sick, I thought. That’s it—I’m sick and need to stay home.
A few minutes later I got my chance.
“Devon says that you’re not hungry.” Mom sat down on the edge of my bed. “Are you feeling all right?” She put her hand on my forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
“I’m not sick,” I answered truthfully, “but I don’t feel very good.”
At first mom looked puzzled, then suddenly she understood. “Are you nervous about your talk?”
“I’m not just nervous,” I said. “I was nervous last night when I went to bed. Then I dreamed that when I got up to give my talk I couldn’t find my notes, and I couldn’t remember anything. It was awful!”
Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry that you had a bad dream, but it was just a dream. You’re going to do fine.”
“Can’t we call and say I’m sick?” I asked. But I knew that Mom would never go for it.
“Come have some breakfast,” she said, pulling the blankets off me. “You’ll feel better once you’re up and going.”
I knew that the only thing that was going to make me feel better was calling the Primary president and telling her that I was too sick to give a talk. Mary Kay could give two talks. She gives talks all the time. She even enjoys giving talks. I started to say something, but Mom gave me one of those “don’t waste your breath” looks, so I stopped.
“Good morning, Son,” Dad said happily as I slumped into my chair.
“Morning,” I grumbled. I couldn’t bring myself to call it a good morning.
Dad looked at me quizzically.
“Jeremy’s a bit worried about his talk,” Mom explained.
“Oh, I see,” Dad said. “Is there anything I can do to help? I’d be happy to listen if you want to practice before we go to church.”
I shook my head. Saying my talk in front of my dad wouldn’t help. I ate one pancake and half a piece of bacon before I asked to be excused.
“We’re really proud of you, you know,” Mom said as I rinsed my plate. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you would be the first one in our family to speak in church.”
“I’m sure that we’ll all get a turn eventually,” Dad said with a smile.
“What do you mean?” Devon asked anxiously.
“Just that speaking in church is something that Latter-day Saints do,” Dad replied. “We don’t have a pastor like we used to, who gives a sermon every week. The members take turns giving talks, instead.”
Devon shook his head. “I don’t ever want to give a talk.” He looked at me. “Who told you that you had to give a talk?”
“Nobody did. My teacher asked our class who wanted to give talks. Four of us raised our hands. We picked numbers to see who got to do it.”
“You mean you volunteered?” Devon was shocked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I wish I’d kept my big mouth shut.”
Mom squeezed my shoulder. “You’re going to do great. Now, go get dressed for church.”
Some time later I hurried down the stairs. “Dad, will you tie my tie? I’ve done it three times and still can’t get it right.”
“I’d be happy to.” He wrapped my tie around his neck and tied a perfect knot. My tie looked pretty funny on him. It was way too short. He slid the tie up over his head, then pulled it down over mine.
“Thanks,” I said as I tightened it. I pulled my note cards out of my shirt pocket and started to read through my talk for the zillionth time.
I sat through sacrament meeting, quietly reading my notes over and over again. It wasn’t until I glanced up and saw Mary Kay watching me that I carefully put them back into my pocket.
When I reached the Primary room, I walked up to the chairs at the front of the room. On the way, I stopped at the podium just to make sure that I really was tall enough to see over it without standing on the stool that the little kids use. It didn’t matter—even if I couldn’t see over it, there was no way I was going to stand on the stool.
As I looked out over the podium, I saw my mom and dad sitting in the back of the room. I hadn’t asked them to come, but I wasn’t surprised to see them. What did surprise me was that Devon was with them. He was missing Sunday School just to hear me talk! I wasn’t sure if I was pleased or annoyed.
Mary Kay sat down in the chair next to mine. “Are you nervous?” she asked.
I shrugged, trying to look calm. “Are you?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’ve given lots of talks, but I still get nervous.” She held out her hands to show me that they were kind of shaking.
“Then why do you always volunteer?” I asked.
Mary Kay shrugged. “I think talking in church is a good thing to do. I think it’s important to tell people what you believe. Don’t you?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I’ve never given a talk before.”
Mary Kay looked shocked. “Really?”
“In my old church, the pastor did all the preaching,” I explained.
“It’s great, once you get going,” Mary Kay said with a smile.
The music started, so we stopped talking. I felt surprisingly calm. Somehow, knowing that Mary Kay got nervous when she gave a talk made me feel better.
After the opening song and prayer, the Primary president announced that Mary Kay and I would be giving talks. Mary Kay went first. I had a hard time listening to her talk. I kept going through my talk in my mind. I was startled when I heard her say “amen.”
“Good luck,” she whispered as I passed her on my way to the podium.
I pushed the stool out of the way with my foot, pulled the microphone down, and began.
“This is the first time I’ve ever given a talk in church,” I began. “In fact, it’s the first time anyone in my family has given a talk in church.” I looked at my family. They were all smiling at me.
I went on to tell of all the ways my life had changed since I was baptized. I talked about reading the Book of Mormon. I told about when the missionaries told my dad that he wasn’t pronouncing Moroni’s name correctly. They said that Dad’s way made the prophet’s name sound like a kind of pasta.
Then I talked about learning to pray, how glad I was when I learned that Heavenly Father wants us to pray, and how I knew that He listens to and answers our prayers.
I was almost finished when I realized that my note cards were still clenched tightly in my hand. I hadn’t even needed them! I thanked my parents and Devon for joining the Church and told them that I loved them. That part wasn’t even in my notes. Then I ended my talk, “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
As I sat down, I was filled with relief and joy.
“You did great!” Mary Kay whispered.
“Thanks,” I said, blushing slightly.
I looked back at my family. Devon smiled and gave me a big thumbs-up. Mom had tears running down her cheeks. I could tell they were happy tears.
When singing time began, I watched my family slip out the back door. I guess there was no reason for them to stay, but I still was sorry to see them go. It was then that I decided that the next time it was our class’s turn to give talks, I’d volunteer again.

Toby curled himself around his mother’s feet on the kitchen floor and began to purr. “Look, Mommy! I’m a kitty,” he said.
Mommy stirred sugar and salt into a big bowl of hot milk on the table and smiled. “Oh, you’re a kitty, are you?” She bent over and patted his head. Toby gave a contented meow. The yeast in a cup with warm water had risen to the top in a bubbly foam. Mommy tested the milk to make sure that it was cool enough, then poured the yeast and a small amount of oil into the bowl.
When Mommy pulled her feet out from under Toby and went to the cupboard for the sifter, Toby slithered up onto a kitchen chair. “Look, Mommy! I’m a snake,” he hissed. He weaved and bobbed as he watched her mix the fine brown flour into the liquid in the bowl. When the dough became stiff enough to handle, Mommy dumped it onto the clean, flour-dusted table and began to knead it with her hands. Toby loved to watch this part, and he flicked his tongue and rattled his tail as he watched.
Next, Mommy put the dough back into the bowl and covered it with a red-checkered cloth. “Time to feed the baby, Mr. Snake,” she told Toby, and they went into the baby’s room. Mommy sat in the rocking chair and softly hummed as she fed Toby’s baby sister.
Toby sat on the floor and practiced wiggling his nose. “Look, Mommy! I’m a mouse,” he squeaked, and the big rocking chair creaked back at him.
“Can you be a very quiet mouse so the baby can go to sleep?” Mommy asked.
Toby nodded and decided to become a mouse statue. He held very still and tried not to squeak or wiggle as Mommy gently laid the baby in the crib and tucked the soft blankets around her. Toby and Mommy tiptoed out of the room and quietly closed the door.
“Look, Mommy! I’m a bunny,” Toby said with a little hop. As he hopped into the kitchen, he noticed that the dough had rounded up over the top of the bowl and was peeking out from under the cloth. Mommy tipped the dough out onto the table and punched it down, working it between her hands and the table. Toby’s bunny ears pricked up, and he giggled as the bubbles in the dough popped and burped at him.
When the dough was smooth and round, Mommy cut it into four parts and shaped each part into a loaf. She put them into pans and set them on the stove to rise again.
Toby hopped into his bedroom, and when he came out again, he had his white blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Look, Mommy! I’m an angel,” he said, pulling his angel robe more tightly around himself.
“It’s naptime for all sleepy little angels,” Mommy said. Toby reverently floated into his room and onto his bed. Mommy kissed his cheek and tucked his angel robe up under his chin. Toby laid his head on a fluffy cloud pillow and drifted off to sleep.
When he woke up, a wonderful smell was tickling his nose. He jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. Four golden brown loaves of bread were sitting on racks on the kitchen table. Toby watched as Mommy sliced a big piece off the end of one loaf. She spread butter and honey over the warm slice of bread and handed it to Toby.
“Look, Mommy! I’m a little boy, now,” Toby said as he took a big bite. “I’m glad Heavenly Father sent you to be my little boy,” Mommy said.
Toby licked the melted honey and butter that ran down his fingers. “Me, too!” he said happily.

Later, a young man moved into our community from Nigeria. I found out that he had recently completed his mission and relocated to my community. I enjoyed coming around him because of his strange accent and his stories about the development happening in Nigeria—the beautiful streets and cities.
One day, while we were arguing, one of my colleagues, Amos Bangura, made a statement: “Liberia is a hell, and if you are born and die in Liberia and go to hell, it is a double punishment. Then God is not fair because things are so tough in Liberia.”
The returned missionary, Brother James Kolue, quickly used that statement as an opportunity to teach us about Heavenly Father’s love for all His children—no matter their location, family background, or country. He taught us that God’s love extends beyond our imagination.
After his teaching, I quickly asked him: “Which church are you attending?”
He replied, “I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Have you heard about this church before?”
I quickly said, “Yes, I sometimes see their missionaries passing by.”
He asked if I would like to learn from the missionaries, and I accepted the invitation. I started meeting with the missionaries. They were friendly and kind, and their message about Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation felt different from anything I had ever heard before.
I spent several weeks learning more about their beliefs and reading the Book of Mormon. There was something about the teachings that resonated deeply with me. I remember the day I prayed for the first time to know if the Church was true, and I felt an overwhelming peace—something I had never felt before.
That was when I knew I had to take the next step.
However, life became tough, and I moved to Logan Town in search of opportunities. There, I met different missionaries and stopped them to explain that I had been learning with missionaries in Brewerville. They contacted the other missionaries and continued my teaching.
The missionaries introduced me to the bishop, who was then Bishop Paul Wrotto. He guided and helped me as I took this new step. Soon after, I was baptized. The moment I emerged from the water, I felt like a new person. My heart was full, my mind clearer, and I was ready to follow the path that Heavenly Father had set for me.
The gospel changed everything in my life, and I felt a strong desire to share it with others—just as the missionaries had shared it with me.
I felt prompted to serve a full-time mission and discussed this with Bishop Wrotto. The decision wasn’t easy. I had doubts about leaving behind the life I knew, especially the part-time job that I struggled to get. But my bishop said two things that remained in my heart:
God knows you personally. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).
You should create time for God. God should not create time for you.
These words kept playing in my mind. I knew it was what I was supposed to do.
I began preparing for my mission, and soon I was called to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission under President and Sister Young. I left my job to fully prepare, but then the unexpected happened: COVID-19.
The pandemic spread rapidly, buildings were shut down, churches were closed, and public gatherings were prohibited. The missionary training center (MTC) was closed, and I was stuck at home—no job, no mission, just frustration.
During this period, I began questioning my decision. But my bishop encouraged me to use the time as an opportunity to study the scriptures and follow the Come, Follow Me program.
Later, we were notified that we would begin online MTC training. Finally, I was blessed to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission.
My mission took me to places where I met incredible people and worked with companions who taught me to be bold in sharing the gospel and patience in helping others find the same joy I had found.
When I returned home, I felt the desire to share the gospel with my family—especially my brother. He had been skeptical when I first joined the Church. He didn’t understand why I was so passionate about it. But instead of forcing him, I decided to live by example.
One evening, I sat down with him and shared my testimony. I told him how the gospel had changed my life. To my surprise, he listened. We discussed the Book of Mormon, the teachings of Jesus Christ, and the Restoration of the gospel. It wasn’t a quick process, but over time he started reading and praying on his own.
Months later my brother made the decision to be baptized. I couldn’t have been happier. I saw him changing, growing, and the same light I once felt began to shine in him.
Eventually, he felt inspired to serve a full-time mission as well. He is currently serving in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission.
It brings me so much joy to see how far he has come. I know he will touch lives and help others find the same peace that comes from knowing Jesus Christ.
The gospel is meant to be shared, and I will continue to share it with those around me—just as I once shared it with my brother.
As I reflect on my journey—from meeting the missionaries, becoming a missionary myself, and helping my brother find his own path—I know that the Lord’s plan is much bigger than we can understand.
I call this story “a journey of faith.”

“How long are you going to keep me?” Lily asked.
My mother looked down at Lily’s smooth, dark face and replied, “You’re a part of our family now. I’m going to keep you forever.”
Lily’s puzzled expression gave away her confusion, so my mother tried again. “I’m going to keep you until tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day. And every day, because I’m your mom forever.”
Our family adopted four-year-old Lily while we were living in Hong Kong. At least once a day for three years Lily would ask, “How long are you going to keep me?”
Slowly this repeated question transformed into a game for our family. Each member of our family gave a different answer. “As high as you can count—I’m going to keep you longer than that” and “I’m going to keep you for a million days times infinity” were a couple of Lily’s favorite responses.
Every day in Hong Kong Lily saw faces like her own. But when our family moved back to the United States, she went weeks without seeing another person with her same sleek black hair and deep brown eyes. Once while in the store, Lily saw a Hispanic woman and excitedly asked, “Mom, is she Chinese?”
Lily had her own system of deciding who was Chinese. She decided our mother, who has dark brown hair, was Chinese because, as Lily put it, “Your hair is like mine.” When my skin became brown in the sun, Lily would say, “You’re kind of Chinese because your skin is like mine.” Lily looked for and found ways each member of our family was like her.
Although Lily does not look like any other member of our family, she is sealed to my parents by the same authority that I am. I know that Heavenly Father has restored priesthood power to the earth and that this power can bind families together for eternity. I am so grateful for that power and my opportunity to be with my family—my whole family—together forever.

I received permission from my dear friend and emeritus General Authority Seventy, Elder Robert E. Wells, now 97 years old, to share his experience of more than 60 years ago:

While living in Paraguay in 1960 and employed as an international banker, Robert Wells, then 32 years old, and his wife, Meryl, were each a pilot in two different planes, flying home from Uruguay to Paraguay. Encountering thick clouds, Robert and Meryl lost visual and radio contact with each other. Robert quickly landed, where he learned his wife’s plane had crashed. Neither his wife nor the two friends flying with her had survived. His children, at home in Asunción, were ages seven, five, and two.

Elder Wells spoke of his grief:
“Words will forever be inadequate in expressing the pain that swelled within me, consuming my emotions and numbing my senses. Profound tears of sorrow simply wouldn’t stop flowing. To make matters worse, as my mind was attempting to deal with the devastating realization of my wife’s passing, I found myself experiencing tremendous guilt for feeling I was responsible for the crash.”

Robert blamed himself for not having had the plane inspected more thoroughly and for not giving his wife better instrument flying instructions. He felt he was guilty of neglect.

Robert said:
“My mind went into a dark daze. … I simply existed—[for the sake of the children,] nothing more.”

“I … lost my desire to continue on.”

In time, Robert was blessed with a deeply spiritual experience. He recounted:
“One evening, about one year later, while on my knees in prayer, a miracle occurred. While praying and pleading to my Heavenly Father, I felt as though the Savior came to my side and I heard an audible voice speaking these words to my soul and to my ears: ‘Robert, my atoning sacrifice paid for your sins and your mistakes. Your wife forgives you. Your friends forgive you. I will lift your burden. …’
“From that moment, the burden of guilt [and despair] was amazingly lifted from me. I had been rescued! I immediately understood the encompassing power of the Savior’s Atonement and … that it applied directly to me. … I … experienced light and joy like I had never before known. … I had been given an unearned gift—the Lord’s gift of grace. … I didn’t deserve it—I had done nothing to merit it, but He gave it to me nonetheless.”

Sarah quickly finished dressing as the morning sun streamed into her bedroom. She was so excited that she could hardly button her shirt. She’d been counting the days till her tenth birthday for weeks, and it was finally here.
She hurried downstairs to the kitchen. “Morning, Mom; morning, Dad,” she said, planting a kiss on each cheek and slipping into her seat at the breakfast table.
“Happy birthday, honey.” Her mother was making Sarah’s favorite breakfast—strawberry pancakes.
“How’s my birthday girl?” asked Dad squeezing her shoulders.
There it was, next to her plate. A little velvet box. Ever since her best friend, Sally, got a real ring on her last birthday, Sarah had been pleading for one of her own. Sally’s was beautiful—ruby red with a rhinestone on each side that glistened in the sun. Sarah gingerly touched the fuzzy fabric.
“Go ahead—open it,” Mom said from the stove.
Her heart pounding, Sarah closed her eyes and lifted the lid. When she opened them again, her heart sank. Nestled inside the beautiful little box was a plain silver ring with a tiny stone that looked like glass, not the brightly colored gem she had imagined. And the ring didn’t even look new.
“Do you like it, Sarah?” asked Dad.
Hiding her disappointment, Sarah answered, “A ring is just what I wanted.”
“It was your great-grandmother’s, you know,” Mom said, setting Sarah’s plate in front of her. “It’s an heirloom.”
“It’s very nice. Thanks.” Sarah stared hard at the ring in front of her and swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Here, let me.” Dad leaned across the table and slid the ugly little ring onto Sarah’s finger. He stood up. “I have to leave now, but I’ll be home early for cake.” He winked at Sarah, kissed them both good-bye, and left for work.
Sarah walked slowly down the sidewalk toward school, knowing that Sally would be waiting for her at the corner. There she was. Sarah slowed her steps even more.
“Happy birthday!” Sally called, beaming. “Did you get it? Let me see it.” And before Sarah could pull away, Sally had grabbed her hand and was staring at the ring.
Forcing a smile, Sarah mumbled, “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”
Sally shrugged. “It’s nice,” she said politely, admiring her own hand.
When they got to school, Sarah slipped the ring off and tucked it into her pocket.
That afternoon she went home from school to find her mother hanging paper streamers in the dining room.
“Hi, sweetie, how was your day?” Then, seeing Sarah’s hand, she gasped, “Oh no! You didn’t lose the ring?”
Horrified, Sarah remembered that it was still in her pocket. She pulled it out hurriedly as she stammered, “No, Mom. I took it off because I was afraid of … of losing it and … and …” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t dare look at Mom’s face.
Mom sat down and patted the seat next to her. “You’re a little disappointed with it, aren’t you?” she asked softly.
Sarah started to shake her head but then just nodded and looked down at her lap, blinking back tears.
“I’m sorry, Sarah, that we didn’t give this to you tonight, when we could tell you about it, instead of this morning, when Dad and you had to rush off. Let’s see, where should I begin … ? We did tell you that it’s an heirloom. Do you know what an heirloom is?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Now we’re giving it to you. It’s a little piece of our family,” she finished. “Do you understand what an heirloom is now?”
Sarah gazed at the ring still clutched in her hand. Hugging her mother, she whispered, “Thanks for telling me, Mom. I’ll be careful with it.” She slipped it back on, and the sun glinted on the tiny stone for a second. Sarah felt as if she herself was shining.
“You’d better go change, or you’ll be late for your own party!” Mom reminded her now. Sarah dashed upstairs. When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, it was Sally. Sarah held out her hand with the ring on it, proclaiming happily, “Wait till you hear all about my ring—it’s an heirloom!”

“I grew up being in Primary plays and pageants. One recollection I have is of a Sister Paul and the making of costumes for these productions. As soon as school was out, Sister Paul would gather us children together and we would march around our neighborhood. I remember the feelings I had while marching with this little fluffy-haired lady. We would gather material, bits of lace, buttons, and ribbon to make costumes for the pageants. Sister Paul made it fun and exciting and allowed us to help make the costumes. These costumes became famous and were borrowed by people from all over. In fact, our enterprise may have been the beginning of the first costume rental business in the city.
“Another recollection I have from childhood is memorable to me because it became a powerful lesson in my life. Pioneer Day is a time of great celebration in Salt Lake City. It is climaxed with a long parade on the morning of July 24th. When I was a preschooler, I was asked to be on the Primary Children’s Hospital float. Of course, this was very exciting to me. Mother bought me a new nightgown and fixed my hair with a ribbon. Father walked me down to where the parade was forming—and there was the float! The woman in charge of this float turned and looked at me. She said, ‘Look at her! We chose her because she looked sick and was skinny.’ She took hold of my hair ribbon and pulled it out of my hair. Then she took one of those big powder puffs and put white powder all over my face. I was crushed. I’d had visions of riding as a queen on the float.
“Before the parade began, my father took me into the hospital, which was then right across the street from the north gate of Temple Square, to talk to the children—wisely, I know now, because I was heart-broken. I was introduced to all the children as the one who was going to represent them in the hospital bed on the float. They banged their crutches and shook their metal cribs as their way of saying, ‘Hurray!’ I went back outside and quickly got up onto the float. The cover on the bed hid my new nightgown, and the hair ribbon was gone. All you could see was my little white face. But I was happy now. I was representing all the children in the hospital. I was just pretending to be sick—for them. It was a wonderful lesson to me, one that I shall never forget.

My mom and I were at the store one day. I asked if I could use the “self-checkout” line by myself. After I paid my money to the machine, the money dispenser gave me back 40 extra dollars! I heard a comforting voice telling me to be honest, so I turned in the money that didn’t belong to me to a store employee. I got a warm feeling inside telling me I had done the right thing!
Jessica R., age 11, North Carolina, USA

One winter Sunday morning, it was cold and icy, and it had snowed the night before. We were debating whether or not to go to church. We decided to go. While listening to the talks, I felt the Spirit stronger than ever before. I was very happy that we went to church that day, and I know why I felt the Spirit. It was because this was the first time I actually listened to the talks. I felt very happy, calm, and humble.
Annabell K., age 10, Maryland, USA

I will begin with a true story. The characters are real. He was well-proportioned and, like King David, “ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to” (1 Sam. 16:12).

With him at his side was a lovely girl, slight of frame and beautiful of face and form. It was obvious that they loved one another, for as they sat together across the desk from me, he reached quietly for her hand and there were meaningful glances.

The melodious voice was hesitant and a bit choked with emotion as he introduced his girl friend, and there was pleading in their eyes. “We are in difficulty, Brother Kimball,” he said. “We have broken the law of chastity. We prayed and fasted and agonized and finally came to the conclusion that we must try to make adjustments.

“That junior prom date was a turning point. It started out a very special one. But as I see it now, it turned out to be a tragic one, the beginning of our troubles. When I saw her coming downstairs that night, I thought no girl was ever so beautiful and so sweet. We danced through the evening; and then when we sat in the car, long and silently afterward, my thoughts became unruly as we became more and more intimate.

“Neither of us dreamed what was happening to us,” he continued, “but all the elements were there to break down resistance. We did not notice time—the hours passed. The simple kisses we had often exchanged gradually developed into petting. We stopped at that. But there were other nights—the bars were down. We loved each other so much that we convinced ourselves that it was not so wrong merely to pet since we sort of belonged to one another anyway. Where we ended one night became the starting point for the next night, and we continued on and on, until finally it happened—almost as though we could not control ourselves—we had intercourse. We had even talked about it and agreed that whatever else we did we would not go that far. And then when it was late—so late—so everlastingly late—we woke up to the meaning of what we had done.”

“Can we be forgiven, Brother Kimball?” the young couple asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “the Lord and his church can and will forgive, but not easily. The way of the transgressor is hard. It always has been and it always will be. The Lord said: ‘I tell thee, thou shalt not depart thence, till thou hast paid the very last mite’” (Luke 12:59).

But I went on to tell them that in his goodness he provided for us a way to forgiveness. One may do as he pleases, but he cannot evade responsibility. He may break laws, but he cannot avoid penalties. One gets by with nothing. God is just. Paul said, “Be not deceived; God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap” (Gal. 6:7).

It was Dale’s idea, as a Scoutmaster, to purchase boating equipment and float the Middle Fork of the Salmon River.
The troop started river running about the time my three oldest sons were in Scout and Explorer troops in the Boise 15th Ward. I remember well how Dale involved the young troop leaders in planning. Few men know better the meaning of the phrase “preparation precedes power.” We started a year ahead. Every boy who wanted to go had to earn the swimming and lifesaving merit badges and be able to swim two-thirds of a mile.
The biggest challenge they had to meet was the “Duffy Battle.” This was hand-to-hand combat with Dale Duffy in water over their heads. He made it a real challenge to see what kind of substance the boys were made of under pressure. During this battle, I’m sure each boy found just how hard he could fight for his life if he had to.
There were also hours of classroom training prior to the first float trip, followed by the practical application of this training as the boys floated down the Boise River in preparation for the Middle Fork experience. Following are some of the things my boys remember and will never forget from this special training:
• You are never on the river without a life jacket.
• Every boy must have a razor-sharp knife in a scabbard on his hip, for use in case he falls in and gets tangled in the rope.
• When you fall in, you face downstream, your feet in front of you to parry off the rocks that are down river.
• When you fall in, always stay with the boat if possible.
• When you swim to shore, swim to the closest shore, diagonally downstream. This conserves strength, and once you are ashore you can be picked up by another boat.
• If someone in your boat falls in, the closest crewmen should immediately grab him and pull him back into the boat as quickly and with as much strength as possible.
• Never pass the lead boat.
• The rubber raft assigned to bring up the rear never passes other boats.
• Never panic, no matter what the condition. Think back on your training and you will recall a specific teaching point or principle that will pull you through.
• Whenever anyone is floating loose after being capsized, pick him up in your boat immediately.
Of course, this is only a small particle of the training the boys received from Dale Duffy. They listened because they respected him and knew that anything they did not understand might put their lives in jeopardy.
On every trip the boys would go to a point just below Dagger Falls and jump into the cold, chill water and float down about 50 yards. This was to take away the initial shock of falling into the water should they capsize. We assigned a crew to each raft, with one of the boys assigned as crew leader. This boy was given total authority while on the river. Usually we would have about six rafts, with three to five boys and their gear on each raft.
I well remember one trip when Scott, my fourth oldest son, was on the same raft with me and three other fellows. On the first or second day of our trip we capsized (which was very common), and the raft got caught in a backwash and was being pounded by tons of water. I came to the surface and watched for my crew members. I counted them. One boy came up, then another, and then a third—but no Scott. I started to feel real concern when I looked back and forth across the river and couldn’t see him anywhere. Fifteen or 20 seconds is an eternity when you are waiting for your son to come to the surface. It’s the most helpless feeling in the world. Finally I saw Scott come to the surface and heaved a great sigh of relief.
“What took you so long?” I yelled to him.
“My foot got caught in the rope, and I was being pounded around because the boat was caught in the backwash.” Then he said, “But I remembered Duffy’s instruction, reached on my hip, pulled my knife out of the scabbard, cut the rope tangled around my foot, and floated free.” I owe my son’s life to Dale Duffy’s training.
About three weeks after our trip another group of river runners went down. Their boat wrapped around a huge rock. All of the crew except one climbed onto the rock. The other crew member got caught in a 50-foot rope and couldn’t get loose. By the time those on the rock had pulled him upstream against the current and lifted him out of the water, he had drowned. This young man was 21 years old. Scott was 13. The whole difference was in training.