Gospel Story Finder

They’ll tell you about the many years when the Saints met in a dilapidated old building high on a hillside. It was held to the mountain by a metal cable running right through the chapel. The members called it their iron rod. Once the roof caved in during Mutual, narrowly missing several people. Snakes sometimes found their way into one of the classrooms, and were gently carried out, giving rise to neighborhood rumors about strange LDS forms of worship. In the wintertime the members sat huddled in blankets listening to blanket-wrapped speakers and teachers. Each gospel truth came out in a puff of white mist. When it came time to move to a nicer building, the youth of the ward did their part with several fund-raising hot dog sales.

A true story from the USA.
“Action!”
Evan’s little brother Ethan pressed record on the tablet, and Evan began his speech. “Hi, my name’s Evan. I was looking for more service opportunities and found our town’s food pantry.”
Evan and Ethan loved making movies together, but this video was special.
The pantry gave food to families who didn’t have enough money to buy groceries at the store. Right now, the pantry was all out of jelly. They were asking people to donate more.
Evan always felt happy when he did service, so he decided to gather some jelly to donate. He was making a video to ask his neighbors to help too.
“If you wanna help, you can drop off jelly at my house. Or you can send money, and I’ll buy the jelly for you!” Evan said as Ethan filmed.
When they were done filming, Evan edited the video until it was just right to share. After Mom posted the video online, people started dropping off jelly and sending money to buy even more!
At the store, Evan stacked jelly jars into a cart. “This would be even more fun with more kids,” he said. “Maybe the kids at my school can help.”
“Great idea!” said Mom.
The next day at school, Evan asked to see Principal Sanchez. He explained his idea to collect jelly for the food pantry.
“It can be like a game,” Evan said. “We can call it the Jelly War.”
“That’s a great plan!” said Principal Sanchez.
Evan made special flyers to pass out to all the fourth graders telling them about the Jelly War.
The next week, the whole fourth grade competed in the Jelly War. Each class tried to bring the most jars of jelly.
At lunch, everyone was excited about the Jelly War. “I’ve never done a competition like this,” said Evan’s friend Maria. “I hope my class wins.”
“I bet my class wins!” said their friend Isaac. “I brought three jars today.”
Evan watched the donation boxes in each classroom start to fill up with jars.
At recess, Evan dug in the sand with his friend Gabe. “Have you brought any jars of jelly yet?” he asked.
“My dad gave me five to donate! I put them in the box this morning,” Gabe said.
“Wow!” Evan couldn’t believe how many kids were joining in the Jelly War.
Soon the jelly boxes were filled to the top. All the fourth graders and teachers gathered in one classroom to hear Evan announce the winners of the Jelly War.
“Together we collected over 200 jars of jelly!” said Evan. The kids all cheered.
“Everyone did such a good job, but only one class can be the winner,” Evan continued.
Everyone held their breath to hear who won.
“Mrs. Child’s class is the winner!”
The kids in Mrs. Child’s class jumped up and down and clapped their hands.
After school, Evan met up with his friends to walk home.
“My class didn’t win, but I just feel happy that I got to help other people,” Maria said.
“Me too,” said Evan. “Who knew kids could make such a big difference?”
Evan couldn’t wait to take all the jelly to the food pantry. He felt warm inside when he thought of all the people who would have food because of their donations.
Best of all, he knew he had followed Jesus Christ by helping others. Evan wanted to feel this way all the time.
“Hey, Mom,” he said when he got home. “When can we do our next service project?”

Back home, he attended George Washington University, studying mechanical engineering and playing clarinet and saxophone in a jazz band. As he neared university graduation, all of his career plans seemed to be on schedule. But then “the Lord placed a bombshell in my little world: Jeanene Watkins.” A vivacious young woman, Jeanene was the daughter of Utah’s Senator Arthur V. Watkins.
Their developing relationship presented a problem for Richard’s carefully laid career plans. One night Jeanene said to him, “When I marry, it will be in the temple to a returned missionary.” He had not thought much about a mission, but with that motivation, he prayed harder than ever before and ended up talking to the bishop about it. Soon after graduation, he left for a mission to Uruguay. Jeanene graduated the following June in sociology and left the next day for a mission to the northwestern states. Soon after they returned home, they were married in the Manti Temple.

Sometime later, touched with the remembrance of that moving Sabbath morning, I told the story to a group of people in another city. Before I left that small community the next day I had a visit from a man who had heard the message and understood it. Later a letter came from him. He had gone home that night and prayed and prepared himself and had then made a visit to the place of a man in his community who had years before imposed upon the sanctity of his home. There had been animosity and revenge in his heart and threats made. That evening when it was made known that he was at the door, his frightened neighbor appeared with a weapon in his hand. The man quickly explained the reasons for his visit, that he had come to say that he was sorry, that he did not want hatred to continue to consume his life. He offered forgiveness and sought forgiveness and went his way in tears, a free man for the first time in years. He left a former adversary also in tears, shaken and repentant.
The next day the same man went to the home of a relative in the town. He said, “I came to ask your forgiveness. I don’t even remember why we have been so long angry, but I have come to tell you that I am sorry and to beg your pardon and to say that I have learned how foolish I have been.” He was invited in to join the family at their table, and was reunited with his kin.
When I heard his story I knew again the importance of qualifying ourselves for the forgiveness of Christ by forgiving.

Some years ago when I was working in a different organization, our personnel director, a devout Catholic, came into my office with his secretary, Darlene. I could readily see that Darlene was not there of her own free will and would rather be elsewhere. The personnel director’s greeting words to me were, “Will you please tell Darlene that Mormons are Christian. I have been arguing with her for over half an hour, and I cannot convince her of that fact. She needs to hear it from you.”
My first concern was, have I done something in my own life that would cause Darlene to question my faith in and loyalty to the Savior? But then I quickly recognized that her doubts were not directed to me personally.
After inviting them to sit down, I asked Darlene why she thought we were not Christians. Her answer was that her minister had told her so. I asked her if she knew the official name of the Church. She did not. She knew the Church only by the name of Mormon. I explained the name to be The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and then asked if it did not seem like a rather odd name for a church that supposedly was not Christian. I next asked my Catholic friend if he would explain from our many hours of discussions on airplanes, in hotels, at dinners, and during other private occasions some of the things he had learned about us as they related to Christ, His teachings, and our beliefs. He explained them with perhaps more credibility than I could have done.
Darlene’s response was that her minister had told her that we did not believe in the Bible, which we had replaced with the Book of Mormon. I replied by sharing the eighth article of faith: “We believe the Bible to be the word of God as far as it is translated correctly; we also believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God.”
I then explained that the Book of Mormon was further scripture complementing the Bible and providing another witness of Christ. It expounds and clarifies many of Christ’s most sacred and important teachings. Her response was, “My minister says the Book of Mormon cannot contain the teachings of Christ because there could be no more revelations after the death of the Apostles; thus, no more scripture after the Bible.” My query to her was, “At a time of such rapid change in a turbulent and troubled world, with so many perplexing problems, wouldn’t it make you wonder why a loving Father would cease to communicate with His children, whom He loved enough that He sacrificed His Only Begotten Son for them?” The discussion continued for the next 15 to 20 minutes, with my attempting to explain our literal interpretation of the Atonement, the Resurrection, and other important doctrines of the Savior. I ended with the strongest testimony I could give of a loving Father and a willing Son.
At the conclusion of our discussion her response was the same: “My minister has spoken, and that is the way it is.” And that is the way the matter was left, leaving me both disappointed and somewhat bothered by the misunderstanding.
Over the years I have pondered this experience with my friend Darlene, bothered by its conclusion. However, I have since concluded that viewpoints based on misunderstandings and fallacious teachings should not trouble me, except as I have a responsibility to attempt to clarify such misconceptions. The real issue is not how others define us but how the Savior defines us. So the question is, how does He personally view each and every one of us?

In 1998, when I was Young Men president in my ward, I participated in a stake youth camp. As I was resting after a game, I saw a young man I didn’t know. He was sitting alone on a little mound away from the camp. He had an unpleasant expression on his face. I felt I needed to go over and talk to him.
I introduced myself and asked his name. I don’t remember all that we talked about, but I do remember that I shed a few tears. It was a special conversation that lasted until they called us to the next activity. I rarely saw the young man after that and never had another chance to talk to him.
In August 2005 we had a meeting at our stake center. This same young man came up to me and gave me a letter. It read:
I started thinking today about our conversation in San Martin Park in about 1998. Just to remind you, I was sitting by myself and feeling a bit sad. You came up to me and said you felt you needed to talk to me. You said … the time had come to choose—either to stay with the Church and follow Jesus Christ or leave it and not enjoy the blessings that come from activity in the Church. The one thing that really stayed with me was when you said that if I fell, my whole family would fall with me, but if I would keep moving forward, they would come too.
… A great desire arose in me to help them. … So from the day we had that talk, I made the decision to be faithful to the Lord, and even now, after seven years, I am still faithful, and my family is firm in the gospel and faithful to the Lord. … Thank you so much for being so straightforward and truthful with me. You’ll never know how much good it did.
This young man is now a returned missionary who has been married in the temple. I am grateful to the Lord for giving me the opportunity to serve as a leader. I am grateful to come to understand the importance of putting myself in others’ shoes so I can try to understand what they are going through.
Alejandro Humberto Villarreal, Argentina

When the 23-year-old Heber J. Grant was installed as president of the Tooele Stake, he told the Saints that he believed the gospel was true. President Joseph F. Smith, a counselor in the First Presidency, inquired, “Heber, you said you believe the gospel with all your heart, … but you did not bear your testimony that you know it is true. Don’t you know absolutely that this gospel is true?”
Heber answered, “I do not.” Joseph F. Smith then turned to John Taylor, the President of the Church, and said, “I am in favor of undoing this afternoon what we did this morning. I do not think any man should preside over a stake who has not a perfect and abiding knowledge of the divinity of this work.”
President Taylor replied, “Joseph, Joseph, Joseph, [Heber] knows it just as well as you do. The only thing that he does not know is that he does know it.”
Within a few weeks that testimony was realized, and young Heber J. Grant shed tears of gratitude for the perfect, abiding, and absolute testimony that came into his life.

Marty glanced at his shoes self-consciously. No one looking at the brightly polished leather could tell that the insides were caked with mud. But Marty knew. He couldn’t wait for Primary to end, so that he could go home and take them off. I won’t go near the canal this time! he vowed to himself.
Last Sunday it had sounded like fun when his brother challenged him to jump over the canal on the way home from church. He’d almost made it, too, but not quite. Conrad had had to pull him out, wet and muddy from head to toe. When they reached home, Mother looked them over. “I think it’s time you boys learned how to do your own laundry,” she said. “And don’t forget to clean your shoes.”
But Marty had forgotten until just a few minutes before church started. He’d gotten the outsides cleaned and polished, but not the insides. Now his feet hurt after sitting three hours with mud in his shoes.
“Can anyone tell me the steps of repentance?” Sister Wilson’s voice brought him back to the present. “Yes, Shelly.”
“Recognize that what you’ve done was wrong. Ask the Lord for forgiveness. Ask for forgiveness from the people you’ve hurt. Repay what you can. Never do it again.”
“That’s right. What happens if you leave out one of these steps? Have you truly repented?”
“No,” the class answered in unison.
“I want you to think about repentance this week. Choose some mistake you’ve made, and honestly try to apply all the steps of repentance. Then pay close attention to how it makes you feel.”
The ringing bell told Marty that there were just a few minutes left before he would be free of his shoes. He didn’t hear most of the closing prayer. At the sound of “Amen,” he was off to the car. Once inside, he took off his shoes and wiggled his toes. Who’d have thought that a little mud could make you so uncomfortable?
“Marty, will you take this pile of clothes up to Emily’s room,” Mom called out Tuesday afternoon. As he was setting the clothes on Emily’s bed, the collection of perfume bottles on her dresser caught his attention. He picked them up one by one, read the names out loud, and sniffed them. How do they come up with the names for these things?
“Marty!” Conrad called from the hallway. “Come play ball.”
Conrad’s voice startled Marty, and he dropped the bottle he was holding. It fell over, and most of the contents spilled out before he could right it. An overpowering scent filled the room. Marty grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on Emily’s dresser and started to mop up the mess.
“What are you doing in here,” Conrad asked as he stuck his head in the doorway. “Give me a gas mask, I’m suffocating!”
“I spilled one of Emily’s perfumes. I didn’t mean to; I was just looking at them.”
“Boy, that’s the expensive one Richard just gave her for her birthday,” Conrad said, coming over to help wipe up the spill. “She’s going to hit the roof when she finds out about this.”
“What can I do?”
“Well, first, don’t throw the tissues in her garbage can. That would tip her off the minute she walked in. We’ll wrap them in a plastic bag and throw them in the garbage can outside. Next, open the windows to air the room out. She won’t be back until late, and the smell should be gone by then.”
Marty nodded in agreement and scooped up the tissues. He was careful to hold them away from his shirt so that it wouldn’t absorb the smell. After he stuffed them into a plastic bag and pushed the bag to the bottom of the trash, he went back to Emily’s room. “Whew—it still smells pretty bad, doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll bring the fan from the family room in here to help blow the smell outside.”
“That was a great idea,” Conrad said when Marty plugged the fan in. “We can leave it on until we go to bed tonight. I bet Emily will never even notice that there was a problem.”
“Except for one thing.” Marty pointed to the almost-empty bottle.
“Maybe if you rearrange them and put that one in the back, she won’t notice it. She has so many that by the time she thinks of wearing that one again, she probably won’t remember how much she used of it.”
“She’ll remember,” Marty moaned. “Hey, I have an idea! I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later he returned with a glass of water and the box of food coloring from the kitchen. “I bet I can color this water to look just like that perfume. Then I’ll just fill the bottle. It was so strong, she’ll never notice if it’s diluted a little.”
By the time Emily returned home, her room was aired, the fan returned to the family room, her windows closed, and the perfume bottle filled. Conrad and Marty lay wide awake in their bedroom across the hall, listening for Emily’s cry of alarm. When her bedroom light clicked off, they knew they were in the clear, at least for a while. I should feel relieved, Marty thought as he lay awake in the dark, but I feel miserable.
Every time Marty looked at Emily for the next few days, he felt awful, even though she never seemed to notice that her perfume was diluted. Marty resolved he would never again touch Emily’s belongings without her permission. He even stopped his usual teasing. He opened doors for her, carried things for her, did anything he could to be helpful to her. Still, he didn’t stop feeling guilty inside.
“What am I doing wrong?” he asked in his prayers. “I’ve talked to Thee about my problem with Emily’s perfume. I’ve done everything I can to be nice to her. But I still feel horrible. I feel like my Sunday shoes, clean on the outside but muddy inside. How can I feel all the way clean?” Marty knew the answer. He rose from his knees, crossed the hall to Emily’s room, and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” Emily was sitting on her bed, studying history.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Have a seat.” She nodded toward the end of the bed.
Marty sat down, but he had a hard time looking at Emily. Help me, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Finally looking up, he blurted out, “I spilled your bottle of perfume from Richard.”
Emily got up and walked over to her collection of perfumes. She picked up the bottle and looked at it. “This one?”
Marty nodded.
She removed the lid, sniffed, and replaced it. She sat back down on the bed next to Marty. “Is that why you’ve been so nice to me lately?”
“Yes,” Marty admitted. “At first, I just wanted to keep you from getting mad at me, so I filled the bottle with colored water. Then I felt really awful and wanted to be a better brother to you. But no matter how much I tried to help you and no matter how much I prayed about it, I never stopped feeling guilty. I knew I had to tell you what I’d done before these awful feelings would go away.”
Emily put her arm around Marty’s shoulders. They sat in silence for a few moments. “You know, Marty, when you spilled the bottle, you wasted only what had spilled. But when you added water to what was left, you ruined all of it.”
“I’ll buy you another bottle, Emily, honest. Just tell me how much it costs, and I’ll save all my allowance until I can buy another one.”
Emily smiled, “Marty, if you want to get me something to replace it, I’d rather have a tube of my favorite hand cream. It would take several months of your allowance to replace that perfume, and I wouldn’t really feel good about letting you do it. Do you know why?”
Marty shook his head.
“Because as much as I appreciate it as a gift because Richard gave it to me, I don’t really like it. It’s much too strong for me. Of all the perfumes I have, if you were going to spill one, I’m glad you spilled that one.”
They both laughed hard for a few minutes. It feels so good to be able to laugh with Emily, Marty thought.
“I probably never would have used it again, little brother,” Emily confided affectionately. “Why didn’t you just wait until I said something? You would have gotten away with it completely.”
“I couldn’t live with the way I felt any longer,” Marty explained.
“The Holy Ghost may whisper softly,” she said, “but it’s a pretty piercing whisper at times, isn’t it?”
Marty nodded. “Do you forgive me?”
“Yes, I forgive you, Marty. And I’m happy to know that you’re listening to the Holy Ghost so carefully. It must have been very hard to come to me. I have just one more question—does this mean you’re going to stop being nice to me?”
Marty grinned. “How could I stop being nice to you, when you’ve been so nice to me? Anyone who thinks having a big sister is a big pain doesn’t have a big sister like you.”
Marty didn’t watch his feet during Sister Wilson’s lesson that Sunday. His shoes were clean on the outside and the inside. And so was he.

Among those who Joseph, 15, and his 19-year-old sister, Alexandra, helped bring to the gospel are their mother and father.
Or maybe it was the parents who brought the children. They’re the ones who first met the missionaries in the city center and brought them home to lunch. The Szamosfalvis had been raised under a regime where Christianity, or any other religion, was discouraged. The gospel message was quite foreign to them. Still, they were interested.
“The missionaries’ message rang true to me,” says Joseph. “I had a great desire to know about the purpose of life.”
“The missionaries weren’t like the other young people we knew,” says Alexandra. “I was impressed because they had goals in life and they were confident. The scriptures gave them direction. They had someone to turn to. So many other people around try to dull their senses with drink and have no point to their lives.”
Although their parents thought they were too busy to take the discussions at that time, Joseph and Alexandra continued on. By the third discussion and a few visits to church meetings, they knew the Church was true and wanted to be baptized.
“The first time we came to church, there was a wonderful feeling there,” says Alexandra. “It was April, and the sun was shining through the windows. Everyone was friendly and warm. When we went to other churches, there was a cold feeling. We felt the Spirit in this church and knew we must return.”
When Joseph and Alexandra asked for permission to be baptized, their parents were surprised that their children could be so sure of something in such a short time. They understood, however, that the Church taught good principles and high morals, the same things they were trying to teach them at home. They gave their consent, and Joseph and Alexandra became the 13th and 14th members of the branch.
“Our parents came to our baptism,” Joseph said. “It was outside, in a swimming pool. The birds and crickets were singing in the background. The Spirit was so strong, and our parents became more interested. The next day, in sacrament meeting, we were asked to bear our testimonies. Dad had to work, but Mom was there.”
Joseph and Alexandra quickly became active and energetic members. They both play musical instruments, the recorder and the guitar; and they love to sing, both hymns and folk music. In the branch, their love of music is infectious. So is their love of the gospel. They frequently help the missionaries and are great aids in integrating investigators. They were especially attentive to their parents.
“We would share our church activities with our parents at dinner,” says Joseph. “We would invite them to come to church with us, and they often came.”
It was really only a matter of time before the senior Szamosfalvis were baptized—by their son, Joseph, of course. And once they joined, Church membership drastically changed their lives. Not only did Joseph Sr. change jobs so he could attend church on Sundays, but he also sold the family vineyard and the family bar. The Szamosfalvis feel the Lord has opened all sorts of doors for them and look forward to a bright future.

A missionary and his companion knocked on the door of an investigator to whom they had given a Book of Mormon. As the elderly woman answered the door, the missionary felt a powerful feeling flood over him. The woman welcomed the missionaries and explained that she had read and believed what they had taught her. The young missionary was so affected by the feeling he felt that he prayed, “Dear Father, please let me never forget the feeling I have felt today.”

June 27th. A lot happened today, and I don’t feel much like thinking about it, let alone writing about it. But President Heber J. Grant says keeping a journal of our daily doings is important, so I better get it done.
It all started this morning when my sister, Charity, was holed up in the privy with a catalog and I had a discomfort worse than I can ever remember. So I cornered a mouse in the root cellar, put it into a fruit jar, and dropped it through a hole in the privy wall.
Charity came screaming out of there madder than bees in a poked hive! She chased me from one end of the farm to the other, but I ran so fast that she couldn’t get close enough to me to do anything more than yell. So she commenced to throw rocks. She missed me—but not the windshield of Sister Donohue’s Model T Ford! Sister Donohue was at our house, working on a quilt with Mama.
When she saw what she’d done, Charity looked like she had just witnessed the end of the world. Then she made a face at me like something I had seen in a bad dream once, and started to cry. Sister Donohue didn’t get mad at her. She just stood there shaking her head.
I hurried off to the privy, figuring that Charity was going to be too concerned with paying for the windshield to think about getting even with me. But was I wrong! The first thing I saw when I got out of the privy and went to my room was Charity—with the little box of marbles I’ve been collecting since I was six years old.
She was standing just outside my open window, holding up the box so that I was sure to see it. I ran outside, but she was gone. Then I saw her by our pet pig Thaddius’ pen. He was wallowing in the mud, which was nice and oozy from last night’s rain.
Charity smiled at me and threw my collection into the mud. By the time I got to the pen, Thaddius had stomped and rolled over the marbles good, and I could only find eight of my twenty-two. The pretty one I found under the schoolhouse steps was gone, and so was the big agate I’d won from Lenny. And every kid in school wanted that one!
I said some hurtful things to Charity and spent the next little while in my room, thinking of ways I could get even with her. And when she walked by my room, she gave me a look that said if I did any of them, I’d soon wish I’d never been born!
After lunch, Mama said that she needed Charity and me to go to the city with her. She needed me to help load the car with groceries and to crank it up. And she needed Charity to choose some material for a dress she was going to make her for a family reunion.
The drive to Salt Lake City takes about an hour. It was real quiet the whole way except for when Mama talked about getting along with one another, and about how the scarecrow in Brother McKillop’s field looked so much like him. I didn’t look at it—I’d have had to look out the window on Charity’s side, and I wasn’t about to look at her any more than she wanted to look at me.
We’d finished shopping and started for home when the car broke down. Some kind men helped us push it up the street to an automobile shop, and the man there said that he’d have it running again in a couple hours. Mama wanted to wait on the temple grounds until it was ready, so that’s what we did.
Mama and Papa were married in the Salt Lake Temple, and she said that outside of heaven or home, it was the best place to be. It is pretty there. It looks like a place where God would like to visit. Mama says that He has visited all His holy temples. She told Charity and me that when she was doing Great-Grandma Lavina’s temple work for her, Great-Grandma appeared to her and put her hand on Mama’s shoulder.
Anyway, Mama told Charity and me that we could go wherever we wanted to go on Temple Square, but to not leave it. She’d find us when she was ready to return to the shop.
Neither one of us wanted to do anything together, so Charity went one way and I went another. I ended up in the museum on the southeast corner of the temple grounds. It had a lot of neat stuff on both floors—Indian artifacts, a strand of the Prophet Joseph’s hair, his bed, little stands with glass covers that had interesting things inside. There was even a big old piano that had been buried along the trail by a family of Saints while they were crossing the plains. That was to keep it safe until they could return for it.
I would’ve enjoyed the museum more if Charity and I hadn’t been so angry at each other. It kind of ruined the feelings that kept trying to grow in me.
Finally I went and sat on a window seat in a little room called the President’s Room. People could sit in it and write postcards and things like that. I wasn’t feeling too good. I thought at first I was just tired or something. But it wasn’t that. I was feeling more and more guilty about being mad at my sister. This was such a sacred place that I couldn’t help feeling bad about feeling bad about anybody, even Charity.
An old man and lady came in. There weren’t enough places for them to sit, so I got up and walked over to the temple. It was getting pretty hot, so I sat in the shadows of those big walls. I got a real warm, reverent feeling—like I do in church when the sacrament is being passed, or like sometimes when I say my prayers.
The feeling started taking up so much room in me that it began pushing the hard feelings I had toward my sister right out. It started pushing tears out too. Other people were close by, and I didn’t want them to see me crying, so I left.
Just as I was turning the corner of the temple, I ran into Charity. We both just stood there and stared at each other. Then she began to cry. She hugged me and said she was sorry. I said I was sorry too.
It was late in the day when Charity, Mama, and I left Salt Lake City for home. I looked back at the temple. It stood as tall as a fine memory against the gold sky.
Mama didn’t have to fill up the silence with talk on the way home, because Charity and I didn’t leave her any room. We talked about everything, especially the temple. What we had seen. And felt. Especially what we had felt. Mama just listened, nodded, and smiled. A lot. And said again when we passed by Brother McKillop’s field how much his scarecrow looked like him. And she’s right—he does. But I’m not going to tell Brother McKillop!

When I think of this principle, I remember a brief encounter with a charitable influence in my own life. One December I found myself facing some unexpected surgery. As I slowly began to awaken in the recovery room, I distinctly felt someone’s hands taking my vital signs and ministering to my needs. The hands felt competent and caring, and they conveyed such a sense of peace and comfort to me that I immediately knew all was well.
Despite my semiconscious state, the experience made a vivid imprint on my spirit, so much so that upon fully awakening, I recalled the touch of those hands. During the week I lay in the hospital, many nurses cared for me, but I never found the one I was looking for.
The morning of my release, a nurse came in to do a last-minute check. I immediately recognized her touch. “I’ve never seen you, but you’ve taken care of me before, haven’t you?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, surprised, “but only once. I cared for you in the recovery room five days ago.” Though that experience was many years ago, I can still recall the kindness and charity conveyed in the touch of her hands.

The glistening morning sun cast its warming rays over the dilapidated old barn, transforming it into a painter’s dream. On the sagging barn door was a large poster—
STRAY-ANIMAL AUCTION
June 10, 1894—10:00 A.M.
All critters sold to highest bidder
CASH ONLY
Clouds of dust rose from all the roads leading to the barn as a colorful crowd began to gather. There were cowpunchers in worn chaps and ten-gallon Stetsons, sitting cross-legged in their saddles, and be-whiskered farmers in bib overalls and straw hats, tying their horses and wagons to fence rails. A sprinkling of better-dressed townsfolk arrived in black-top buggies. A pair of Navajo Indians had taken up squatter’s rights beside the barn, hoping to trade one of their bright handmade blankets for a goat or a sheep.
Wow! thought nine-year-old T. J. as he scrambled to the top of the high pole fence and stared down at the corral filled with animals churning about. This is better than a circus. He opened his little, ragged purse and counted his coins for the umpteenth time, “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two cents. It’s not much, but I don’t care. I’m going to bid anyway!”
The old auctioneer chided him, “Back again, T. J.? Are you going to buy yourself a horse today?”
He’s just poking fun at me, T. J. thought and gave him a disgusted look. “I’ll show you,” he muttered to himself. “I’m really going to bid today.”
In the corral beneath T. J. were several large horses, three old milk cows, a young steer with long horns, two nanny goats, and four sheep.
The auctioneer climbed on top of the auction box. Just as he was about to speak, T. J. lost his balance and plunged headlong into the corral, landing on the back of the steer. The startled animal took off, kicking and bellowing. T. J. grabbed hold of its horns and managed to stay on top as it bucked and plowed in and out among the other frightened animals.
Everyone clapped and hollered, “Hang in there, T. J.” “You can do it.” “Whoopee!”
Suddenly the steer stopped, and T. J. sailed off, landing sprawled out in the dust of the smelly corral. Everyone cheered.
“Humph,” grunted the auctioneer. “Now that the show’s over, we’ll get started.”
A big, bay mare was led out for inspection. “How much am I bid for this fine mare?” the auctioneer asked.
Before anyone else could say anything, T. J. waved his arms wildly and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Everybody snickered, and one of the men hollered, “Well, kid, I’ll just have to bid ten dollars and sixty-two cents.”
T. J.’s hopes were dashed. The horse was eventually sold for eighteen dollars and sixty-two cents. Then the next horse was brought forward.
“How much am I bid for this fine gelding?” the auctioneer queried.
Once again young T. J. bravely shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
This time the crowd really laughed and hooted. After several bids, the gelding sold for twenty-two dollars and sixty-two cents. Still determined, T. J. bid unsuccessfully on the third horse.
For a change of pace the auctioneer sold two milk cows and a sheep. Soon there was only one horse left, another mare. As she was led out for display, T. J. could see big, shiny patches of hide here and there between dust and dirt where she had been rolling around in the smelly corral. “All she needs is to be brushed and wiped down,” T. J. sighed. “She’s just beautiful, and I want her.”
As he longingly gazed at the mare, he heard the auctioneer roar with feigned admiration, “I’ve saved the best for last! How much am I bid for this beauty?”
T. J. was shocked to hear Old Pete sneer, “The best? Why she’s the worst-looking critter I’ve seen in all my life. She must be sick, and you must be crazy!”
Pete’s son added, “Yeah, Pa! Worse still, I hear that she’s a stumpsucker.”
Someone else volunteered, “Besides that, I know for a fact that she has a mean streak a mile wide.”
Then they all stopped talking and looked at T. J. The boy felt sorry for that horse; he even loved her. And he didn’t believe one word of what he’d just heard. But he’d given up all hope of being able to buy a horse with sixty-two cents. He just sat there, staring sadly at the horse he wanted so badly. Then he heard a farmer say, “Tell you what—I’ll bid five cents for the nag.”
Somebody else hollered, “I’ll go you one better, Jake. I bid twenty-five cents!”
Old Pete jumped up and shouted, “I’m going to get that mare for fifty-five cents!”
T. J. came to life and wildly waved both arms and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Dead silence followed. The auctioneer was very disgruntled to have the bidding go sour. In fact, he was furious. “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. How about ten dollars and sixty-two cents?”
Not a single word was spoken; not a single head nodded.
“Then how about five dollars and sixty-two cents?”
When no one offered to up the bid, he exploded, “Well, I’m not going to sell this horse for sixty-two cents, and that’s final!”
“Oh, yes, you are!” Old Pete yelled. “You’ll sell to the highest bidder, or none of us are paying for our animals.”
The other men shouted in agreement.
Realizing that the men meant business, the auctioneer meekly declared, “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. Do I hear any more bids? Going once, going twice, …” Down went the gavel. “Sold to T. J. for sixty-two cents.”
The crowed went wild. They whistled and clapped and threw their hats into the air and slapped each other on the back. T. J. was speechless. He scrambled down off the fence and reached into his pocket for his purse—but it was gone! “I’ve lost my money!” he wailed. He scurried under the fence and ran frantically in and out among the startled animals.
“Hold on, everybody. T. J.’s lost his purse!” shouted Old Pete as he jumped down and began to help T. J. search. Soon there were as many men in the corral as there were animals, all running hither and thither. Dogs were barking, cows were bellowing, and sheep were bleating.
All at once T. J. spied his purse in the muck under the hoof of a cow. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” he screamed.
“Hurray!” shouted the men as Old Pete lifted T. J. over the fence.
T. J. counted out his sixty-two cents for the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper gave him a leg up, and there sat T. J. astride his very own horse. “I’m going to call her Beauty,” he proudly announced, lovingly stroking her tangled mane, “‘cause she’s the most beautiful horse in the world, and she’s all mine.”

I learned the significance of this early in my career. After finishing my education at Stanford Law School, I focused on working for a particular law firm. No members of the Church were associated with the firm, but its lawyers were individuals of character and ability. After a morning of interviews, the most senior partner and two other partners took me to lunch. The senior partner inquired if I would like a prelunch alcoholic drink and later if I would like wine. In both cases I declined. And the second time, I informed him that I was an active Latter-day Saint and did not drink alcoholic beverages.

I received an offer of employment from the firm, and a few months later the senior partner told me that the offer of alcoholic beverages was a test. He noted that my résumé made it clear that I had served a Latter-day Saint mission. He had determined that he would hire me only if I was true to the teachings of my own church. He considered it a significant matter of character and integrity.

After I graduated high school, I moved out to Utah, USA. Nicole was already there, and she was anxiously waiting for me to get there so I could start taking the missionary lessons. I had a plan to be baptized on my 19th birthday—just six weeks away—and Nicole assured me she would be right there with me the whole time.
When the missionaries began to teach me, I soon realized how little I really knew about the Church. I had read and loved the Book of Mormon, but suddenly they were telling me about the gift of the Holy Ghost, the plan of salvation, becoming like God, and so many other new things. It was too much to digest all at once.
But Nicole knew me well. She would help explain what the elders were teaching in a way she knew I’d understand. In those first lessons, her patient explanations were the reason I stayed.
Nicole spiritually supported me like that until the day I was baptized—and after. She helped the ward members and missionaries plan so I could be baptized on my 19th birthday. When I came out of the water and saw dozens of people beaming at me, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I will never forget that feeling of finally belonging to the Lord and His Church.

Jeffrey just started kindergarten and is making lots of friends. One day, his teacher told me that the day before, one of the students in his class was having a bad day and was very unhappy. The teacher said that Jeffrey stayed by this student’s side during recess and tried his best to be a good friend. He put his arm around her and comforted her the best he could. At lunchtime, he made sure that he sat next to her, and he helped her open her milk carton and other items in her lunch. Jeffrey’s teacher said that she was very proud of Jeffrey for being a good friend to the girl.

Be careful; your blessings may come in unexpected ways.

Seven years ago, Kathy and I met Diego Gomez and his beautiful family in Salt Lake City. They attended a temple open house with us but graciously declined our invitation to learn more about the Church. This past May, I received a surprising telephone call from Diego. Events in his life had led him to his knees. He had found the missionaries on his own, taken the discussions, and was ready for baptism. This past June 11, I walked into the waters of baptism with my friend and fellow disciple Diego Gomez. His conversion had its own timetable and came with the help and support of many who reached out to him as “witnesses of God.”

“My mother had taken me to an elocution teacher. Our family was very fortunate because my father had a good job and could afford to give us that kind of training. Then a wonderful opportunity came. Someone in the sixth grade was to be chosen to speak in the great Tabernacle on Temple Square for the school festival. I just knew it was going to be me.”
It wasn’t. In her disappointment, Elaine had no way of knowing that one day her voice would not only be heard in the great Tabernacle on Temple Square, but would be broadcast from that very spot to the nations of the world. But without the advantage of knowing the future, how did she handle the present?
“Well, at first I thought, ‘What good does it do to work and train and prepare? People just choose their friends.’ But I got over that. I’ve always been a true believer in the Lord, so I could go to my Heavenly Father and say, Why? Didn’t I work hard enough? What did I do wrong? She was learning at a young age to pour out her heart as she would to a loving father and expect answers to come.
Through her school and college years, Sister Cannon came to realize that being distracted by the selfish aims of position, prestige, power, and popularity may gradually ease you away from what you really want ultimately; they will lead you away from that sometimes discouraging climb towards heights never dreamed of in the beginning.
“This is what I learned: When I simply did what was at hand for me to do and did it the very best I could every day, not worrying about other things, those very experiences that were important to my preparation for other opportunities came into my life naturally.”
She also learned that personal disappointment could be cured by service to others:
“I ran for president of my high school women’s student association and lost. I felt that losing left me out of everything, and I really wanted to be in. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I worked with one of my teachers to plan a marvelous party for the girl who beat me.
“When you lose and you’re really hurt, you can just reach out. If someone offends you or gets the honor or the award or job that you wanted, you just say to someone, ‘What can I do for you?’ And then you try to reach out to another and away from your own hurt.”

Mom, this is Austin. He’s in my class. Is it OK if we play video games for a while? I haven’t used many of my minutes this week.
That’s fine. You’ll be playing our approved games, right?
Yup.
You have a time limit?
Yeah. I used to play video games too much, so now I have a limit every week. I was kinda mad about it at first.
But your grades have gotten better!
And I started playing real sports again, like basketball. Hey, let’s shoot some hoops before we play video games.
Watch this shot.
Throw it to me!
Gee, that’s pretty easy.
Especially when you’ve been practicing secretly.

Amy trudged along the sidewalk, dragging her hand across the slats of the wooden fence that surrounded Sister Pedersen’s yard. It’s not fair, she thought. Why do I have to stay indoors reading the newspaper to an old blind lady while everyone else is going to the movies with Emily. And how can I ever be Emily’s friend if I can’t go to the movie with her?
Grudgingly Amy walked up the steps to Sister Pedersen’s house and knocked on the door.
The door swung open, and there stood eighty-year-old Sister Pedersen.
“It’s me, Amy, Sister Pedersen.”
“Come on in, Amy, and sit down here in this armchair. I believe in taking care of business first. Shall I pay you each day you come?” Sister Pedersen asked, opening her purse.
“No, ma’am. Mother said that I shouldn’t take money for reading to you. In family home evening we agreed to work on serving others, and you’re my assignment.”
Sister Pedersen snapped her purse shut, nodded her head, and said, “You may read to me now.”
Amy struggled through reading the newspaper’s front-page articles. She wondered how anyone could consider this a pleasure.
After about forty-five minutes, Sister Pedersen interrupted, “Let’s stop now, Amy. Do you like treasures?”
“I suppose so. What kind of treasures?”
“Follow me, and you’ll see,” Sister Pedersen told her.
“This is my treasure room,” Sister Pedersen announced, as she guided Amy into a small room with several cabinets filled with collectibles: red goblets, silk flowers in painted vases, tiny dolls in native costumes, crystal paperweights, and bright blue plates. “It’s like an antique shop!” she exclaimed, rushing from one cabinet to another to peer at the treasures.
“You probably wonder why a blind lady keeps so many ornaments,” Sister Pedersen said. “When I touch the smooth glass objects or the soft silk fabrics, my fingers experience beauty.”
Amy watched the old lady gently rub a delicate bird fashioned of blown glass. She traced the china roses on a pink vase. Then she picked up a crystal ball etched with an intricate pattern.
“Go ahead. Touch them, Amy,” Sister Pedersen coaxed.
Fascinated by the beauty of the bird, Amy timidly picked it up from the table. It was a swan with its neck arched proudly and its wings spread wide, ready to take flight.
“This swan is wonderful!” Amy whispered.
“A glassblower made it for me when I was very young. He created that lovely bird from liquid glass, and then let me feel all the glass figures in his store. Since that day, whenever I touch my swan, I know that I, too, have ‘seen’ beauty. Now, you look around, and don’t be afraid to handle everything. I’ll go prepare some refreshments for us. I remember how hungry young people are after school.”
Amy held the swan and imagined herself a young blind girl. Hearing sounds of laughter outside, she set the swan down and leaned over the table to look out the window. Emily and all her friends were returning from the movie. Amy didn’t feel as bad about missing it as she thought she would. As she turned away from the window, Amy’s hand accidentally bumped the swan, knocking it to the floor. She quickly picked up the pieces and frantically put them into her pocket.
Sister Pedersen called, “Come downstairs, Amy, and have some biscuits and milk. Then you’d better hurry home, or your mother might not let you come again.”
Amy gulped down her snack nervously. She was too afraid to say anything about the broken glass swan. She said good-bye and quickly left the house.
What should I do? she wondered. I can’t go back, no matter what Mother says. As Amy shut the gate, she looked up and saw Sister Pedersen waving to her. It made her feel worse, somehow.
Walking home from school the next day, Amy passed Sister Pedersen’s house and sighed with relief. At least she wasn’t supposed to read to Sister Pedersen until next week. But she still felt awful, and when she got home, she emptied a container of all the money she had saved and counted it carefully. “I hope it’s enough,” she muttered as she went to find her mother.
After school Monday, Amy slowly approached Sister Pedersen’s house, clutching a white box. When the door opened, she said, “It’s Amy, Sister Pedersen.”
“Come in, Amy. I didn’t think this was the day for your visit, but you’re welcome any time.”
After they sat down, Amy carefully opened the box and placed the new swan in Sister Pedersen’s hands. Swallowing nervously, Amy said, “This is a replacement for the one that I broke. I’m awfully sorry. It was an accident.”
“It’s all right, Amy. I heard it break. I’m glad that you told me, though,” Sister Pedersen said, adding, “I’m sure this bird cost you quite a lot of money, and I want you to keep it and enjoy its beauty. You have given me something more important. You have been an honest and good friend.”
When she left to go home, Amy happily turned at the gate to call good-bye to Sister Pedersen, her new friend, who stood in the doorway, waving.